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diff --git a/old/69060-0.txt b/old/69060-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3724252..0000000 --- a/old/69060-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5973 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The angel of his presence and Gabriel -the Acadian, by Grace Livingston Hill - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The angel of his presence and Gabriel the Acadian - -Authors: Grace Livingston Hill - Edith M. Nicholl Bowyer - -Release Date: September 28, 2022 [eBook #69060] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed Proofreaders - Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images - generously made available by the Internet Archive. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE AND -GABRIEL THE ACADIAN *** - - THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE - - BY - - GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL - - AUTHOR OF - “_In the Way_,” “_Lone Point_,” “_An Unwilling Guest_,” _etc._ - - - * * * * * - - - GABRIEL THE ACADIAN - - BY - - EDITH M. NICHOLL BOWYER - - - PHILADELPHIA - AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY - 1420 Chestnut Street - - - - - Copyright 1902 by the - AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY - * * * * * - Published September, 1902 - - - From the Society’s own Press - - - - - Contents - - - The Angel of His Presence - - Gabriel the Acadian - - - - - THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE - - BY - - GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL - - - - - THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE - - =LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS= - - “‘_I have just discovered who you are - and felt as if I would like to shake - hands with you_’” 11 - - “_She lingered as if transfixed before - the picture_” 23 - - “_He dropped it and it shivered into - fragments at his feet_” 38 - - “_‘Who is it?’ he asked sharply and - suspiciously_” 45 - - “_She stood behind his big leather - chair, her hands clasped together - against one cheek_” 55 - - “_He threw away his cigar and - disappeared behind the shrubbery_” 67 - - “_The ‘ladye of high degree’ . . . saw - them standing also_” 79 - - - - - _The Angel of his presence saved them._ - _In his love and in his pity he redeemed them._ - —_Old Testament_ - - - - - THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE - - - CHAPTER I - -John Wentworth Stanley stood on the deck of an Atlantic Liner looking -off to sea and meditating. The line of smoke that floated away from his -costly cigar followed the line of smoke from the steamer as if it were -doing honest work to help get Mr. Stanley to New York. The sea in the -distance was sparkling and monotonous and the horizon line empty and -bright, but Mr. Stanley seemed to see before him the hazy outlines of -New York as they would appear in about twenty-four hours more, if all -went well. And of course all would go well. He had no doubt of that. -Everything had always gone well for him. - -Especially well had been these last two years of travel and study -abroad. He reflected with satisfaction upon the knowledge and experience -he had gained in his own special lines, upon the polish he had acquired, -and he glanced over himself, metaphorically speaking, and found no fault -in John Wentworth Stanley. He was not too Parisian in his deferential -manner, he was not too English in his deliberation, neither was he, that -worst of all traits in his eyes, too American in his bluntness. He had -acquired something from each nation, and considered that the combined -result was good. It is a comfortable feeling to be satisfied with one’s -self. - -Nor had he been shut entirely out of the higher circles of foreign -society. There were pleasant memories of delightful evenings within the -noble walls of exclusive homes, of dinners and other enjoyable occasions -with great personages where he had been an honored guest. When he -thought of this, he raised his chest an inch higher and stood just a -little straighter. - -There was also a memory picture of one, perhaps more, but notably of one -“ladye of high degree,” who had not shown indifference to his various -charms. It was pleasant to feel that one could if one would. In due time -he would consider this question more carefully. In the near future this -lady was to visit America. He had promised himself and her the pleasure -of showing her a few of his own country’s attractions. And,—well, he -might go abroad again after that on business. - -His attention was not entirely distracted by his vision of the “ladye of -high degree” from looking upon his old homeland and anticipating the -scenes and the probable experiences that would be his in a few hours. -Two years seemed a long time when he looked back upon it, though it had -been brief in the passing. He would doubtless find changes, but there -had been changes in him also. He was older, his tastes were—what should -he say—developed? He would not take pleasure in the same way that he -had taken it when he left, perhaps. He had learned that there were other -things—things if not better, at least more cultured and less -old-fashioned than his former diversions. Of course he did not despise -his up-bringing, nor his homeland, but he had other interests now as -well, which would take much of his time. He had been from home long -enough for the place he left to have closed behind him, and he would -have no difficulty in staying “dropped out.” He expected to spend much -of his time in New York. Of course he would make his headquarters at -home, where his father and mother were living, in a small city within a -short distance of America’s metropolis. - -His man—he had picked up an excellent one while traveling through -Scotland—had gone on ahead to unpack and put in place the various -objects of art, etc., that he had gathered on his travels. He had not as -yet become so accustomed to the man that he could not do without him -from day to day, and had found it convenient to send him home on the -ship ahead of his own. - -He wondered what his home-coming would be like. His father and mother -would of course be glad to see him and give him their own welcome. But -even with them he could not feel that he was coming home to a place -where he was indispensable. They had other children, his brothers and -sisters, married and living not far from home. Of course they would be -glad to have him back, all of them, but they had been happy enough -without him, knowing he was happy. But in town, while he had friends, -there were none whom he eagerly looked forward to meeting. He had -attended school there of course, and in later years, after his return -from college, had gone into the society of the place, the literary clubs -and tennis clubs and, to a degree, into church work. He had indeed been -quite enthusiastic in church work at one time, had helped to start a -mission Sunday-school in a quarter where it was much needed, and acted -as superintendent up to the time when he had gone abroad. He smiled to -himself as he thought of his “boyish enthusiasm” as he termed it, and -turned his thoughts to his more intelligent manhood. Of course he would -now have no time for such things. His work in the world was to be of a -graver sort, to deal with science and art and literature. He was done -with childish things. - -He was interrupted just here by one of the passengers. “I beg your -pardon, I have just discovered who you are and felt as if I would like -to shake hands with you.” - -The speaker was a plain, elderly man with fine features and an earnest -face. Mr. Stanley had noticed him casually several times and remarked to -himself that that man would be quite fine looking if he would only pay a -little more attention to his personal appearance. Not that he was not -neatly dressed, nor that his handsome, wavy, iron gray hair was not -carefully brushed; but somehow John Wentworth Stanley had acquired -during his stay abroad a nice discrimination in toilet matters, and -liked to see a man with his trousers creased or not creased, as the -height of the mode might demand, and classed him, involuntarily, -accordingly. - -But he turned in surprise as the stranger addressed him. What possible -business could this man have with him, and what had he done that should -make the man want to shake hands with him? - -[Illustration: “‘I HAVE JUST DISCOVERED WHO YOU ARE AND FELT AS IF I -WOULD LIKE TO SHAKE HANDS WITH YOU.’”] - -Mr. Stanley was courteous always, and he at once threw away the end of -his finished cigar and accepted the proffered hand graciously, with just -a tinge of his foreign-acquired nonchalance. - -“My name is Manning. You don’t know me. I came to live at Cliveden -shortly after you went abroad, but I assure you, I have heard much of -you and your good work. I wonder I did not know you, Mr. Stanley, from -your resemblance to your mother,” the stranger added, looking into the -young man’s eyes with his own keen, gray ones. He did not add that one -thing which had kept him from recognizing his identity had been that he -did not in the least resemble the Mr. Stanley he had been led to expect. - -Mr. Manning owned to himself in the privacy of his stateroom afterward -that he was just a little disappointed in the man, though he was -handsome, and had a good face, but he did seem to be more of a man of -the world than he had expected to find him. However, no trace of this -was written in his kindly, interested face, as John Stanley endeavored -to master the situation and discover what all this meant. - -“Oh, I know all about your work in Cliveden, Mr. Stanley. I have been -interested in the Forest Hill Mission from my first residence there, and -what I did not learn for myself my little girl told me. She is a great -worker, and as she has no mother, she makes me her confidant, so I hear -all the stories of the trials and conflicts of her Sunday-school class, -and among other things I constantly hear of this one and that one who -owe their Christian experience to the efforts of the founder of the -mission and its first superintendent. Your crown will be rich in jewels. -I shall never forget Joe Andrews’ face when he told me the story of how -you came to him Sunday after Sunday, and said ‘Joe, aren’t you ready to -be a Christian yet?’ and how time after time he would shake his head, -and he says your face would grow so sad.” The elder gentleman looked -closely at the clean-shaven, cultured face before him to trace those -lines which proved him to be the same man he was speaking of, and could -not quite understand their absence, but went on, “and you would say, -‘Joe, I shall not give you up. I am praying for you every day. Don’t -forget that.’ And then when he finally could not hold out any longer and -came to Christ, he says you were so glad, and he cannot forget how good -it was of you to care for him and to stick to him that way. He said your -face looked just as if the sun were shining on it the day he united with -the church. That was a wonderful work you did there. It is marvelous how -it has grown. Those boys of yours will repay the work you put upon them -some day. Nearly all of the original members of your own class are now -earnest Christians, and they cannot get done telling about what you were -to them. My little girl writes me every mail more about it.” - -John Stanley suddenly felt like a person who is lifted out of his -present life and set down in a former existence. All his tastes, his -friends, his pursuits, his surroundings, during the past two years had -been utterly foreign to the work about which the stranger had been -speaking. He had become so engrossed in his new life that he had -actually forgotten the old. Not forgotten it in the sense that he was -not aware of its facts, but rather forgotten his joy in it. And he stood -astonished and bewildered, hardly knowing how to enter into the -conversation, so utterly out of harmony with its spirit did he find -himself. As the stranger told the story of Joe Andrews there rushed over -him the memory of it all: the boy’s dogged face; his own interest -awakened one day during his teaching of the lesson when he caught an -answering gleam of interest in the boy’s eye, and was seized with a -desire to make Jesus Christ a real, living person to that boy’s heart; -his watching of the kindling spark in that sluggish soul, and how little -by little it grew, till one night the boy came to his home when there -were guests present, and called for him, and he had gone out with him -into the dewy night under the stars and sat down with him on the front -piazza shaded by the vines, hoping and praying that this might be his -opportunity to say the word that should lead the boy to Christ, when -behold, he found that Joe had come to tell him, solemnly as though he -were taking the oath of his life, that he now made the decision for -Christ and hereafter would serve him, no matter what he wanted him to -do. A strange thrill came with the memory of his own joy over that -redeemed soul, and how it had lingered with him as he went back among -his mother’s guests, and how it would break out in a joyous smile now -and then till one of the guests remarked, “John, you seem to be -unusually happy to-night for some reason.” How vividly it all came back -now when the vein of memory was once opened. Incident after incident -came to mind, and again he felt or remembered that thrill of joy when a -soul says, “You have helped me to find Christ.” - -Mr. Manning was talking of his daughter. John had a dim idea that she -was a little girl, but he did not stop to question. He was remembering. -And there was a strange mingling of feelings. His new character had so -thoroughly impressed its importance upon him that he felt embarrassed in -the face of what he used to be. Strangely enough the first thing that -came to mind was, What would the “ladye of high degree” think if she -knew all this? She would laugh. Ah! That would hurt worse than anything -she could do. He winced almost visibly under her fancied merriment. It -was worse than if she had looked grave, or sneered, or argued, or -anything else. He could not bear to be laughed at, especially in his new -rôle. And somehow his old self and his new did not seem to fit rightly -together. But then the new love of the world and his new tastes came in -with all the power of a new affection and asserted themselves, and he -straightened up haughtily and told himself that of course he need not be -ashamed of his boyhood. He had not done anything but good. He should be -proud of that, and especially so as he would probably not come in -contact with such work and such people again. He had more important -things to attend to. - -Not that he said all this, or thought it in so many words; it passed -through his mind like phantoms chasing one another. Outwardly he was the -polished, courteous gentleman, listening attentively to what this father -was saying about his daughter, though really he cared little about her. -Did Mr. Stanley know that she had taken his former Sabbath-school class -and that there were many new members, among them some young men from the -foundries? No, he did not. He searched in his memory and found a -floating sentence from one of his mother’s letters about a young woman -who had consented to take his class till his return and who was doing -good work. It had been written, perhaps, a year ago, and it had not -concerned him much at the time as he was so engrossed in his study of -the architecture of the south of France. He recalled it now just in time -to tell the father how his mother had written him about the class, and -so save his reputation as a Sunday-school teacher. It transpired that -the daughter who had taken the class and the little girl the stranger so -constantly referred to as writing him letters about things were one and -the same. He wondered vaguely what kind of a little girl was able to -teach a class of young men, but his mind was more concerned with -something else now. - -It appeared that the former mission where he had been superintendent had -grown into a live Sunday-school, and that they were looking for his -home-coming with great joy and expectation. How could such a thing be -other than disconcerting to the man he had become? He had no time to be -bothered with his former life. He had his life-work to attend to, which -was not—and now he began to feel irritated—mission Sunday-schools. -That was all well enough for his boyhood, but now—and besides there was -the “ladye of high degree.” - -Perhaps the man of experience saw the stiffening of the shoulders and -the upper lip and divined the thoughts of the other. His heart sank for -his daughter and her boys, and the mission, and their plans for his -home-coming, and he made up his mind that secret or no secret, this man -must be told a little of the joy of sacrifice that had been going on for -him, for surely he could not have been the man that he had been, and not -have enough of goodness left in his heart to respond to that story, no -matter what he had become. And so he told him as much of the story his -daughter had written him as he thought necessary, and John Wentworth -Stanley thanked him and tried to show that he was properly appreciative -of the honor that was to be shown him, and tried not to show his -annoyance about it all to the stranger, and got away as soon as -possible, after a few polite exchanges of farewells for the evening, and -went to his stateroom. Arrived there he seated himself on the side of -his berth, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and sat -scowling out of the porthole with anything but a cultured manner. - -“Confound it all!” he muttered to himself. “I suppose it’s got to be -gone through with some way for mother’s sake and after they’ve made so -much fuss about it all. I can see it’s all that girl’s getting up; some -silly girl that thinks she’s going to become prominent by this sort of -thing. Going to give me a present! And I’ve got to go up there and be -bored to death by a speech probably, and then get up and be made a fool -of while they present me with a pickle dish or a pair of slippers or -something of the sort. It’s awfully trying. And they needn’t think I’m -going back to that kind of thing, for I’m not. I’ll move to New York -first. I wish I had stayed in France! I wish I had never worked in -Forest Hill Mission!” - -Oh, John Stanley! Sorry you ever labored and prayed for those immortal -souls, and wrought into your crown imperishable jewels that shall shine -for you through all eternity! - - - CHAPTER II - -They stood in the gallery of one of New York’s most famous art stores; -seven stalwart boys—young men, perhaps, you would call them—all with -an attempt at “dress up,” and with them Margaret Manning, slender and -grave and sweet. They were chaperoned by Mrs. Ketchum, a charming little -woman who knew a great deal about social laws and customs, and always -spoke of things by their latest names, if possible, and who took the -lead in most of the talk by virtue of her position in society and her -supposed knowledge of art. There were also Mrs. Brown, a plain woman who -felt deeply the responsibility of the occasion, and Mr. Talcut, a little -man who was shrewd in business and who came along to see that they did -not get cheated. These constituted the committee to select a present for -the home-returning superintendent of the Forest Hill Mission -Sunday-school. It was a large committee and rather too heterogeneous to -come to a quick decision, but its size had seemed necessary. Margaret -Manning was on it, of course. That had been a settled thing from the -beginning. There would not have been any such present, probably, if -Margaret had not suggested it and helped to raise the money till their -fund went away up above their highest hopes. - -The seven boys were in her Sunday-school class, and no one of them could -get the consent of himself to make so momentous a decision for the rest -of the class without the other six to help. Not that these seven were -her entire class by any means, but the class had elected to send seven -from their own number, so seven had come. Strictly speaking, only one -was on the committee, but he depended upon the advice of the other six -to aid him. - -“Now, Mr. Thorpe,” said Mrs. Ketchum in her easy, familiar manner, “we -want something fine, you know. It’s to hang in his ‘den.’ His mother has -just been refitting his den, and we thought it would be quite -appropriate for us to get him a fine picture for the wall.” - -The preliminaries had been gone through with. Mr. Thorpe knew the -Stanley family slightly, and was therefore somewhat fitted to help in -the selection of a picture that would suit the taste of one of its -members. He had led them to the end of the large, well-lighted room, -placed before them an easel, and motioned them to sit down. - -The seven boys, however, were not accustomed to such things, and they -remained standing, listening and looking with all their ears and eyes. -Somehow, as Mrs. Ketchum stated matters, they did not feel quite as much -to belong to this committee as before. What, for instance, could Mrs. -Ketchum mean by Mr. Stanley’s “den”? They had dim visions of Daniel and -the lions, and the man who fell among thieves, but they had not time to -reflect over this, for Mr. Thorpe was bringing forward pictures. - -“As it’s a Sunday-school superintendent, perhaps something religious -would be appropriate. You might look at these first, anyway,” and he put -before them a large etching whose wonder and beauty held them silent as -they gazed. It was a new picture of the Lord’s Supper by a great artist, -and the influence of the picture was so great that for a few moments -they looked and forgot their own affairs. The faces were so marvelously -portrayed that they could but know each disciple, and felt that the hand -which had drawn the Master’s face must have been inspired. - -“It is more expensive than you wanted to buy, but still it is a fine -thing and worth the money, and perhaps as it is for a church, I might -make a reduction, that is, somewhat, if you like it better than anything -else.” - -Mrs. Ketchum lowered her lorgnette with a dissatisfied expression, -though her face and voice were duly appreciative. She really knew a fine -thing when she saw it. - -“It is wonderful, and you are very kind, Mr. Thorpe; but do you not -think that perhaps it is a little, just a little, well—gloomy—that is, -solemn—well—for a den, you know?” and she laughed uneasily. - -Mr. Thorpe was accustomed to being all things to all men. With an easy -manner he laughed understandingly. - -“Yes? Well, I thought so myself, but then I didn’t know how you would -feel about it. It would seem hardly appropriate, now you think of it, -for a room where men go to smoke and talk. Well, just all of you step -around this side of the room, please, and I’ll show you another style of -picture.” - -They followed obediently, Mrs. Ketchum murmuring something more about -the inappropriateness of the picture for a den, and the seven boys -making the best of their way among the easels and over Mrs. Ketchum’s -train. All but Margaret Manning. She lingered as if transfixed before -the picture. Perhaps she had not even heard what Mrs. Ketchum had said. -Two of the boys hoped so in whispers to one another. - -“Say, Joe,” he whispered in a low grumble, “I forgot all about Mr. -Stanley’s smoking. She——” with a nod toward the silent, pre-occupied -woman still standing in front of the picture, “she won’t like that. -Maybe he don’t do it any more. I don’t reckon ’twould be hard fer him to -quit.” - -Every one of those seven boys had given up the use of tobacco to please -their teacher, Miss Manning. - -Other pictures were forthcoming. There were landscapes and seascapes, -flowers and animals, children and wood nymphs, dancing in extraordinary -attitudes. The boys wondered that so many pictures could be made. They -wondered and looked and grew weary with the unusual sight, and wished to -go home and get rested, and did not in the least know which they liked. -They were bewildered. Where was Miss Manning? She would tell them which -to choose, for their part of the choice was a very important part to -them, and in their own minds they were the principal part of the -committee. - -[Illustration: “‘I HAVE JUST DISCOVERED WHO YOU ARE AND FELT AS IF I -WOULD LIKE TO SHAKE HANDS WITH YOU.’”] - -Miss Manning left the great picture by and by and came over to where the -others sat, looking with them at picture after picture, hearing prices -and painters discussed, and the merits of this and that work of art by -Mrs. Ketchum and Mr. Talcut, whose sole idea of art was expressed in the -price thereof, and who knew no more about the true worth of pictures -than he knew about the moon. Then she left the others and wandered back -to the quiet end of the room where stood that wonderful picture. There -the boys one by one drifted back to her and sat or stood about her -quietly, feeling the spell of the picture themselves, understanding in -part at least her mood and why she did not feel like talking. They -waited respectfully with uncovered heads, half bowed, looking, feeling -instinctively the sacredness of the theme of the picture. Four of them -were professed Christians, and the other three were just beginning to -understand what a privilege it was to follow Christ. - -Untaught and uncouth as they were, they took the faces for likenesses, -and Christ’s life and work on earth became at once to them a living -thing that they could see and understand. They looked at John and longed -to be like him, so near to the Master and to receive that look of love. -They knew Peter and thought they recognized several other disciples, for -the Sunday-school lessons had been of late as vivid for them as mere -words can paint the life of Christ. They seemed themselves to stand -within the heavy arch of stone over that table, so long ago, and to be -sitting at the table, his disciples, some of them unworthy, but still -there. They had been helped to this by what Miss Manning had said the -first Sunday she took the class, when the lesson had been of Jesus and -of some talks he had had with his disciples. She had told them that as -there were just twelve of them in the class she could not help sometimes -thinking of them as if they were the twelve disciples, especially as one -of them was named John and another Andrew, and she wanted them to try to -feel that these lessons were for them; that Jesus was sitting there in -their class each Sabbath speaking these words to them and calling them -to him. - -The rest of the committee were coming toward them, calling to Miss -Manning in merry, appealing voices. She looked up to answer, and the -boys who stood near her saw that her eyes were full of tears, and more -than one of them turned to hide and brush away an answering tear that -seemed to come from somewhere in his throat and choke him. - -“Come, Margaret,” called Mrs. Ketchum, “come and tell us which you -choose. We’ve narrowed it down to three, and are pretty well decided -which one of the three we like best.” - -Margaret Manning arose reluctantly and followed them, the boys looking -on and wondering. She looked at each of the three. One was the -aforementioned nymph’s dance, another was a beautiful woman’s head, and -the third was a flock of children romping with a cart and a dog and some -roses. Margaret turned from them disappointed, and looked back toward -the other picture. - -“I don’t like any of them, Mrs. Ketchum, but the first one. Oh, I do -think that is the one. Please come and look at it again.” - -“Why, my dear,” fluttered Mrs. Ketchum disturbedly, “I thought we -settled it that that picture was too, too—not quite appropriate for a -den, you know.” - -But her words were lost, for the others had gone forward under the -skylight to where the grand picture stood, and were once more under the -spell of those wonderful eyes of the pictured Master. - -“It is a real nice picture,” spoke up Mrs. Brown. She was fond of -Margaret Manning, though she did not know much about art. She had been -elected from the woman’s Bible class, and had been rather overpowered by -Mrs. Ketchum, but she felt that now she ought to stand up for her friend -Margaret. If _she_ wanted that picture, that picture it should be. - -“How much did you say you would give us that for, Mr. Thorpe?” said the -sharp little voice of Mr. Talcut. - -Mr. Thorpe courteously mentioned the figures. - -“That’s only ten dollars more’n we’ve got,” spoke up the hoarse voice of -one of the seven unexpectedly. It was Joe, who felt that he owed his -salvation to the young superintendent’s earnest efforts in his behalf. - -“I say we’d better get it. Ten dollars ain’t much. We boys can go that -much. I’ll go it myself somehow if the others don’t.” - -“Well, really, ladies, I suppose it’s a very good bargain,” said Mr. -Talcut rubbing his hands and smiling. - -“Then we’ll take it,” said Joe, nodding decidedly to Mr. Thorpe; “I’ll -go the other ten dollars, and the boys can help, if they like.” - -“But really Margaret, my dear,” said Mrs. Ketchum quite distressed, “a -_den_, don’t you know, is not a place for——” - -But the others were all saying it was just the picture, and she was not -heard. Mr. Talcut was giving the address and orders about the sending. -None of them seemed to realize that Mrs. Ketchum had not given her -consent, and she, poor lady, had to gracefully accept the situation. - -“Well, it’s really a very fine thing, I suppose,” she said at last, -somewhat hesitatingly, and putting up her lorgnette to take a critical -look. “I don’t admire that style of architecture, and that table-cloth -isn’t put on very gracefully; it would have been more artistic draped a -little; but it’s really very fine, and quite new, you say, and of course -the artist is irreproachable. I think Mr. Stanley will appreciate it.” - -But she sighed a little disappointedly, and wished she had been able to -coax them to take the nymphs. She would take pains to let Mr. Stanley -know that this had not been her choice. The idea of having to give in to -those great boors of boys! But then it had all been Margaret Manning’s -fault. She was such a little fanatic. She might have known that it would -not do to let her see a religious picture first. - - - CHAPTER III - -It was Margaret Manning’s suggestion that it should be presented -quietly. Some of the others were disappointed. Mrs. Ketchum was one of -the most irate about it. - -“The idea! After the school had raked and scraped together the money, -that they should not have the pleasure of seeing it presented! It’s a -shame! Margaret Manning has some of the most backwoods’ notions I ever -heard of. It isn’t doing things up right at all. There ought to be a -speech from some one who knows how to say the right thing; my husband -could have done it, and would if he’d been asked. But no, Margaret -Manning says it must be hung on his wall, and so there it hangs, and -none of us to get the benefit. I declare it is a shame! I wish I had -refused to serve on that committee. I hate to have my name mixed up in -it the way things have gone.” So said Mrs. Ketchum as she sat back in -her dim and fashionable parlor and sighed. - -But the seven boys ruled things, and they ruled them in the way Miss -Manning suggested; and moreover, Mrs. Brown and Mr. Talcut had gone over -to the enemy completely since the purchase, the enemy being Miss -Manning. Mr. Talcut rubbed his hands admiringly, and said Miss Manning -was an exceedingly shrewd young woman, that she had an eye for business. -That picture was the best bargain in that whole store. - -But Margaret went on her way serenely, not knowing her power nor -enjoying her triumph. Albeit she was pleased in her heart with the -picture, and she thought that her seven boys had been the true selectors -of it. She wrote in her fine, even hand, that was like her in its lovely -daintiness, the words the committee told her to write—which she had -suggested—on a white card to accompany the picture. It read, “To our -beloved superintendent, with a joyous welcome home, from the entire -school of the Forest Hill Mission.” - -The Stanley home stood in fine, large grounds, with turf smooth as -velvet and grand old forest trees all about. The house was large, -old-fashioned, and ugly, but the rooms were magnificent in size, and -filled with all the comforts money could buy. On one side, just off the -large library and connected with the hall, had been built an addition, a -beautiful modern room filled with nooks and corners and unexpected -bay-windows, which afforded views in at least three directions because -of the peculiar angles at which they were set. In one corner was a -carved oak spiral staircase by which one could ascend to the airy -sleeping room over-head if he did not choose to go through the hall and -ascend the common stair. One side of the room and various other -unexpected bits of wall were turned into bookcases sunk in the masonry -and covered by glazed doors. The bay-window seats were heavily -upholstered in leather, and so were all the chairs and the luxurious -couch. Nearly one entire end of the room was filled by the great -fireplace, the tiling of which had been especially designed for it. In a -niche built for it with a fine arrangement for light, both by day or -night, stood a large desk. It was a model working room for a gentleman. -And this addition had been built by the senior Mr. Stanley for his son -when he should return to take up the practical work of architecture, for -which he had been preparing himself for some years. - -It was here that the great picture was brought and hung over the -fireplace, where it could look down upon the entire room. It was hung -just the day before John Wentworth Stanley’s man arrived with his -master’s goods and chattels and began to unpack and dispose things -according to his best judgment. - -John Stanley’s mother had come in to superintend the hanging of the -picture and had looked at it a long time when she was left alone, and -finally had knelt shyly beside the great new leather chair and offered a -silent little prayer for the home-coming son. She was an undemonstrative -woman, and this act seemed rather theatrical when she thought of it -afterward. What if a servant had opened the door and seen her! -Nevertheless she felt glad she had dedicated the room, and she was glad -that the picture was what it was. With that Ketchum woman on the -committee she had feared what the result might be when she had had the -scheme whispered to her. Somebody must have fine taste. Perhaps it was -that dainty, lily-faced young girl who seemed to be so interested in -John’s Sunday-school class. The mother was busy in her home world and -did not go into church work much. She was getting old and her children -and grandchildren were all about her, absorbing her time and thought. - -The man came in from the piazza that surrounded the bay window and -reached around to the long French window at the side, where he had been -unpacking a box. He placed a silver-mounted smoking set on a small -mahogany table. Then he stood back to survey the effect. Presently he -came in with some fine cut glass, a small decanter heavily mounted in -silver and glasses to match. He went out and came back with their tray. -Having dusted them off carefully and arranged them on the tray, he -placed it first on the handsome broad mantel, and as before stood back -to take a survey. He knew the set was a choice example of artistic work -along this line. It was presented to his master while he was visiting in -the home of a nobleman in token of his friendship and to commemorate -something or other, the man did not exactly know what. But he did not -like the effect on the mantel. He glanced uneasily up at the picture. In -a dim way he felt the incongruity. He scowled at the picture and -wondered why they put it there. It should have been hung in the hall or -some out-of-the-way place. It was more suited for a church than anywhere -else, he told himself. He placed the decanter tray on the little table -at the other side of the fireplace from the smoking set, and stood back -again. It looked well there. He raised his eyes defiantly to the -picture, and met the full, strong, sweet gaze of the pictured eyes of -the Master. The man lowered his eyes and turned away, disturbed, he knew -not why. He was not a man who cared about such things, neither was he -one accustomed to reason. He went out to the piazza again to his -unpacking, trying to think of something else. It wasn’t his picture nor -his decanter anyway, and he whistled a home tune and wondered why he had -come to this country. He didn’t seem to feel quite his usual pride this -morning in the fact that he knew his business. When he finally unpacked -the wicker-covered demijohn of real old Scotch whisky that had -accompanied the decanter, he carried it through the room and deposited -it in the little corner cupboard behind the chimney, shut the door and -locked it with a click, and went out again without so much as raising -his eyes. All that day he avoided looking at that picture over the -mantelpiece, and he grew quite happy in his work again and quite -self-satisfied, and felt with a sort of superstitious fear that if he -looked at it his happiness would depart. - -There were other rare articles that he had to unpack and dispose of, and -once he came to a large, handsome picture, a sporting scene in water -colors by a celebrated artist. That now, would be the very thing to hang -over the mantel in place of the picture already there. He even went so -far as to suggest to Mrs. Stanley that he make the change, but she -coldly told him to leave the picture where it was, as it was a gift, and -showed him the envelope to place on the mantel directly under the -picture, which contained the card from the donors. - -So the man left the room at last, somewhat dissatisfied, but feeling -that he had done the best he could. The night passed, the day came, and -with it the new master of the new room. - -“It’s really a magnificent thing, mother,” he said, as he stood in front -of the great picture after, having admired the room and shown his -delight in all they had done for him. “I’m delighted to have it. I saw -the original on the other side. And it was good taste of them to give it -quietly in this way too. But there is a sense in which this is quite -embarrassing. They will expect so much, you know, and of course I -haven’t time for this sort of thing now.” - -“Well, I thought something ought to be done, my son,” responded the -mother, “so I sent out invitations for the whole school for a reception -here next week. That is, I have them ready. They are not sent out, but -are waiting your approval. Tuesday will be a free evening. What do you -think?” - -John Stanley scowled and sighed. - -“Oh, I suppose that’s the easiest way to get out of it now they’ve sent -me this. It will be an awful bore, but then it’ll be over. I shall -scarcely know how to carry myself among them, I fear, I’ve been out of -this line so long, and they fancy me so virtuous,” and he smiled and -shrugged his handsome shoulders. - -“But John dear, you mustn’t feel in that way. They really think a great -deal of you,” said his mother, smiling indulgently upon him. - -“Oh, it’s all right; go ahead, mother. Make it something fine while -you’re about it. Give them quite a spread you know. Some of them don’t -get many treats, I suppose,” and he sank down in one of the luxurious -chairs and looked about him with pleasure. - -“This is nice, mother,” he said; “so good of you and father to think of -it. I can do great things here. The room is an inspiration in itself. It -is a poem in architecture.” - -Then the mother left him awhile to his thoughts and he began to piece -together his life, that portion he had left behind him across the water, -and this new piece, a part of the old, that he had come to take up -again. There hovered on the margin of his mind the image of the “ladye -of high degree,” and he looked out about on his domain with satisfaction -at thought of her. At least she would see that people in this country -could do things as well as in hers. - -Then by some strange line of thought he remembered his worriment of -yesterday about that present, and how he had thought of her laugh if she -should know of it. A slight feeling of pleasure passed over him; even in -this she could find no fault. It was fine and costly and a work of -genius. He need not be ashamed even if some one should say to her that -the picture was presented to him by a mission class grateful for what he -had done for it. He began to swell with a sense of importance at the -thought. It was rather a nice thing, this present, after all. He changed -his position that he might examine the picture more carefully at his -leisure. - -The fire that his mother had caused to be lighted to take off the chill -of the summer evening and complete the welcome of the room, sent out a -ruddy glow and threw into high relief the rich, dark gloss of the frame -and the wonderful picture. It was as if the sombre, stone-arched room -opened directly from his own, and he saw the living forms of the Twelve -gathered around that table with the Master in the midst. But the Master -was looking straight at him—at him, John Wentworth Stanley, -self-satisfied gentleman of the world that he was, looking at him and -away from the other disciples. Down through all the ages those grave, -kind, sad, sweet eyes looked him through and through, and seemed to sift -his life, his every action, till things that he had done now and -yesterday, and last year, that he had forgotten, and even when he was a -little boy, seemed to start out and look him in the face behind the -shadows of those solid stones of that upper chamber. The more he looked -the more he wondered at the power the picture seemed to have. He looked -away to prove it, and he knew the eyes were following his. - -The rosy glow of the firelight seemed to be caught and crystallized in a -thousand sparkles on one side of the fire. He looked in passing and knew -what the sparkles were, the fine crystal points of that cut glass -decanter. He had forgotten its existence until now, since the day he had -had it packed. He knew it was a beautiful thing in its way, but he had -not intended that it should be thus displayed. He hoped his mother had -not seen it. He would look at it and then put it away, that is, pretty -soon. Now his eyes were held by the eyes of his Master. Yes, his Master, -for he had owned his name and called himself a Christian, and no matter -what other things had come in to fill his mind, he had no wish to give -up the “name to live.” And yet he was conscious, strangely, abnormally -conscious of that decanter. His Master seemed to be looking at it too, -and to be inquiring of him how he came to have it in his possession. For -the first time he was conscious, painfully so, that he had never given -its donor any cause to think that such a gift would be less acceptable -to him than something else. His Master had understood that too, he felt -sure. He was annoyed that he could frame no excuse for himself, as he -had so easily done when the gift first reached him. He had even been -confident that he would be able to explain it to his mother so that she -would be rather pleased with the gift than otherwise, strong temperance -woman though he knew her to be. Now all his reasons had fled. The eyes -of his Master, his kind, loving, sorrowing Master were upon him. He -began to be irritated at the picture. He arose and seized the decanter -hastily, to put it somewhere out of sight, just where he had not -thought. - -Now the officious Thomas, who knew his place and his work so well, had -placed in the new, freshly washed decanter a small quantity of the rare -old Scotch whisky that had come with it. Thomas knew good whisky when he -saw—that is, tasted—it, and he was proud of a master to whom such a -gift had been given. John Stanley did not expect to find anything in his -decanter until he put it there himself, or gave orders to that effect. -He was new to the ways of a “man” who so well understood his business. -As he jerked the offending article toward him some of this whisky -spilled out of the top that had perhaps not been firmly closed after -Thomas had fully tested the whisky. Its fumes so astonished its owner -that, he knew not how, he dropped it and it shivered into fragments at -his feet on the dull red tiles of the hearth. - -Annoyed beyond measure, and wondering why his hand had been so unsteady, -he rang the bell for Thomas and ordered him to take away the fragments -and wipe the whisky from the hearth. Then he seated himself once more -till it was done. And all the time those eyes, so sad and reproachful -now, were looking through and through him. - -“Thomas!” he spoke sharply, and the man came about face suddenly with -the broom and dustpan in hand on which glittered the crystals of -delicate cutting. “Where is the rest of that—that stuff?” - -Thomas understood. He swung open the little door at the side of the -chimney. “Right here at hand, sir! Shall I pour you out some, sir?” he -said, as he lifted the demijohn. - -[Illustration: “HE DROPPED IT AND IT SHIVERED INTO FRAGMENTS AT HIS - FEET.”] - -John Stanley’s entire face flushed with shame. His impulse was severely -to rebuke the impertinence, nay the insult, of the servant to one who -had always been known as a temperance man. But he reflected that the -servant was a stranger to his ways, and that he himself had perhaps -given the man reason to think that it would be acceptable by the very -fact that he had these things among his personal effects. Then too, his -eyes had caught the look of the Master as he raised them to answer, and -he could not speak that harsh word quite in that tone with Jesus looking -at him. - -He waited to clear his throat, and answered in a quieter tone, though -still severely: “No; you may take it out and throw it away. I never use -it.” - -“Yes, sir,” answered Thomas impassively; but he marveled. Nevertheless -he forgave his master, and took the demijohn to his own room. He was -willing to be humble enough to have it thrown away on him. But as he -passed the servant’s piazza, the cook who sat resting from her day’s -labors there and planning for the morrow’s _menu_, heard him mutter: - -“As shure as I live, it’s the picter. It’s got some kind o’ a spell.” - - - CHAPTER IV - -After Thomas had left the room with the demijohn, his master seemed -relieved. He began to walk up and down his room and hum an air from the -German opera. He wanted to forget the unpleasant occurrence. After all, -he was glad the hateful, beautiful thing was broken. It was no one’s -fault particularly, and now it was out of the way and would not need to -be explained. He walked about, still humming and looking at his room, -and still that picture seemed to follow and be a part of his -consciousness wherever he went. It certainly was well hung, and gave the -strong impression of being a part of the room itself. He looked at it -critically from a new point of view, and as he faced it once more he was -in the upper chamber and seemed to hear his Master saying, “Yet a little -while, and the world seeth me no more”; and he realized that he was in -the presence of the scene of the end of his Master’s mission. He walked -back to the fireplace seeking for something to turn his thoughts away, -and passing the table where stood his elegantly mounted smoking set, he -decided to smoke. It was about his usual hour for his bedtime smoke, -anyway. He selected a cigar from those Thomas had set out and lighted it -with one of the matches in the silver match safe, and for an instant -turned with a feeling of lazy, delicious luxury in the use of his new -room and all its appliances. Unconsciously he seated himself again -before the fire in the great leather chair, and began to puff the smoke -into dreamy shapes and let his thoughts wander as he closed his eyes. - -Suppose, ah, suppose that some one, say the “ladye of high degree,” -should be there, should belong there, and should come and stand behind -his chair. He could see the graceful pose of her fine figure. She might -reach over and touch his hair and laugh lightly. He tried to imagine it, -but in spite of him the laugh rang out in his thoughts scornfully like a -sharp, silver bell that belonged to some one else. He glanced over his -shoulder at the imagined face, but it looked cold above the smoke. She -did not mind smoke. He had seen her face behind a wreath of smoke -several times. It seemed a natural setting. But the dream seemed an -empty one. He raised his head and settled it back at a new angle. How -rosy the light was as it played on the hearth and how glad he was to be -at home again. That was enough for to-night. The “ladye of high degree” -might stay in her home across the sea for this time. He was content. -Then he raised his eyes to the picture above without knowing it, and -there he was smoking at the supper table of the Lord. At least so he -felt it to be. He had always been scrupulously careful never to smoke in -or about a church. He used to give long, earnest lectures on the subject -to some of the boys of the mission who would smoke cigarettes and pipes -on the steps of the church before service. He remembered them now with -satisfaction, and he also remembered a murmured, jeering sound that had -arisen from the corner where the very worst boys sat, which had been -suppressed by his friends, but which had cut at the time, and which he -had always wondered over a little. He had seen no inconsistency in -speaking so to the boys in view of his own actions. But now, as he -looked at that picture he felt as though he were smoking in church with -the service going on. The smoke actually hid his Master’s face. He took -down his cigar and looked up with a feeling of apology, but this was -involuntary. His irritation was rising again. The idea of a picture -upsetting him so! He must be tired or his nerves unsettled. There was no -more harm in smoking in front of that picture than before any other. -“Confound that picture!” he said, as he rose and walked over to the bay -window, “I’ll have it hung somewhere else to-morrow. I won’t have the -thing around. No, it’ll have to be left here till after that reception, -I suppose; but after that it shall go. Such a consummate nuisance!” - -He stood looking out of the open window with a scowl. He reflected that -it was a strange thing for him to be so affected by a picture, a mere -imagination of the brain. He would not let it be so. He would overcome -it. Then he turned and tramped deliberately up and down that room, -smoking away as hard as he could, and when he thought his equilibrium -was restored, he raised his eyes to the picture as he passed, just -casually as any one might who had never thought of it before. His eyes -fell and he went on, back and forth, looking every time at the picture, -and every time the eyes of that central figure watched him with that -same sad, loving look. At last he went to the window again and angrily -threw up the screen, threw his half-smoked cigar far out into the -shrubbery of the garden, saying as he did so, “Confound it all!” - - * * * * * - -It was the evening before the reception. It was growing toward nine -o’clock, and John Stanley had retired to his wing to watch the fire and -consider what a fool he was becoming. He had not smoked in that room -since the first night of his return. He had not yielded to such weakness -all at once nor with the consent of himself. He had thought at first -that he really chose to walk in the garden or smoke on the side piazza, -but as the days went by he began to see that he was avoiding his own new -room. And it was all because of that picture. He glanced revengefully in -the direction where it hung. He did not look at it willingly now if he -could help it. His elegant smoking set was reposing in the chimney -cupboard, locked there with a vicious click of the key by the hand of -the young owner himself. And it was not only smoking, but other things -that the picture affected. There for instance was the pack of cards he -had placed upon the table in their unique case of dainty mosaic design. -He had been obliged to put them elsewhere. They seemed out of place. Not -that he felt ashamed of the cards. On the contrary he had expected to be -quite proud of the accomplishment of playing well which he had acquired -abroad, having never been particularly led in that direction by his -surroundings before he had left home. Was this room becoming a church -that he could not do as he pleased? Then there had been a sketch or two -and a bit of statuary, which he had brought in his trunk because they -had been overlooked in the packing of the other things. That morning he -brought them down to his room, but the large picture refused to have -them there. There was no harm in the sketches, only they did not fit -into the same wall with the great picture, there was no harmony in their -themes. The statuary was associated with heathenism and wickedness, ’tis -true, but it was beautiful and would have looked wonderfully well on the -mantel against the rich, dark red of the dull tiles, but not under that -picture. It was becoming a bondage, that picture, and after to-morrow -night he would banish it to—where? Not his bedroom, for it would work -its spell there as well. - -Just here there came a tap on the window-sill, followed by a hoarse, -half-shy whisper: - -“Mr. Stanley, ken we come in?” - -He looked up startled. The voice had a familiar note in it, but he did -not recognize the two tall, lank figures outside in the darkness, clad -in cheap best clothes and with an air of mingled self-depreciation and -self-respect. - -“Who is it?” he asked sharply and suspiciously. - -[Illustration: “‘WHO IS IT?’ HE ASKED, SHARPLY AND SUSPICIOUSLY.”] - -“It’s me, Mr. Stanley; Joe Andrews. You ain’t forgot me yet, I know. And -this one’s my friend, Bert; you know him all right too. May we come in -here? We don’t want to go to the front door and make trouble with the -door bell and see folks; we thought maybe you’d just let us come in -where you was. We hung around till we found your room. We knowed the new -part was yours, ‘cause your father told the committee, you know, when -they went to tell about the picture.” - -Light began to dawn on the young man. Certainly he remembered Joe -Andrews, and had meant to hunt him up some day and tell him he was glad -to hear he was doing well and living right, but he was in no mood to see -him to-night. Why could he not have waited until to-morrow night when -the others were to come? Was not that enough? But of course he wanted to -get a word of thanks all his own. It had been on his tongue to tell Joe -he was unusually busy to-night, and would he come another time, or wait -till to-morrow, but the remembrance of the picture made that seem -ungracious. He would let them in a few minutes. They probably wished to -report that they had seen the picture in the room before the general -view should be given, so he unfastened the heavy French plate window and -let the two in, turning up as he did so the lights in the room, so that -the picture might be seen. - -They came in, lank and awkward, as though their best clothes someway -hurt them, and they did not know what to do with their feet and the -chairs. They did not sit down at first, but stood awkwardly in single -file, looking as if they wished they were out now they were in. Their -eyes went immediately to the picture. It was the way of that picture to -draw all eyes that entered the room, and John Stanley noted this with -the same growing irritation he had felt all day. But over their faces -there grew that softened look of wonder and awe and amaze, and to John -Stanley’s surprise, of deep-seated, answering love to the love in the -eyes of the picture. He looked at the picture himself now, and his fancy -made it seem that the Master was looking at these two well pleased. -Could it be that he was better pleased with these two ignorant boys than -with him, John Stanley, polished gentleman and cultured Christian that -he trusted he was? - -He looked at Joe again and was reminded of the softened look of deep -purpose the night Joe had told him beneath the vines of his intention to -serve Christ, and now standing in the presence of the boy again and -remembering it all vividly, as he had not done before, there swept over -him the thrill of delight again that a soul had been saved. His heart, -long unused to such emotions, felt weak, and he sat down and motioned -the boys to do the same. It would seem that the sight of the picture had -braced up the two to whatever mission theirs had been, for their faces -were set in steady purpose, though it was evident that this mission was -embarrassing. They looked at one another helplessly as if each hoped the -other would begin, and at last Joe plunged in. - -“Mr. Stanley, you ben so good to us we thought ’twas only fair to you we -should tell you. That is, we thought you’d like it, and anyway, maybe -you wouldn’t take it amiss.” - -John Stanley’s heart was kind, and he had been deeply interested in this -boy once. It all came back to him now, and he felt a strong desire to -help him on, though he wondered what could be the nature of his errand. - -Joe caught his breath and went on. “You see she don’t know about it. -She’s heard so much of you, and she never heard that, not even when they -was talking about the den and all at the store, she was just lookin’ at -the picture and Him,” raising his eyes reverently to the picture on the -wall, “and we never thought to tell her afore, and her so set against -it. And we thought anyway afterward maybe you’d quit. Some do. We all -did, but that was her doin’s. But we thought you’d like to know, and if -you had quit she needn’t never be told at all, and if you hadn’t, why we -thought maybe ‘twouldn’t be nothin’ for you to quit now, ‘fore she ever -knew about it.” - -The slow red was stealing up into the face of John Stanley. He was -utterly at a loss to understand what this meant, and yet he felt that he -was being arraigned. And in such a way! So humbly and by such almost -adoring arraigners that he felt it would be foolish and wrong to give -way to any feeling of irritation, or indignation, or even offended -dignity on his part. - -“I do not understand, Joe,” he said at last, looking from one to another -of the two boys who seemed too wretched to care to live longer. “Who is -she? And what is it that she does not know, and that you want me to -‘quit’? And why should it be anything to her, whoever she is, what I -do?” - -“Why it’s her, Miss Manning—Margaret Manning—our teacher.” Joe spoke -the name slowly, as if he loved it and revered it; “and it’s that we -want you to—that is, we want her to—to like you, you know. And it’s -the—the—I can’t most bear to say it, ‘cause maybe you don’t do it any -more,” and Joe looked up with eyes like a beseeching dog. - -“It’s the smokin’,” broke in Bert huskily, rising. “Come on, Joe, we’ve -done what we ‘greed to do; now ‘tain’t no more of our business. I say, -come on!” and he bolted through the window shamefacedly. - -Joe rose and going up to Mr. Stanley laid hold of his unwilling hand and -choked out: “You won’t take it hard of me, will you? You’ve done so much -fer me, an’ I kind of thought I ought to tell you, but now since I seen -yer face I think maybe I had no business. Good-night,” and with a face -that looked as if he had been caught in the act of stealing, Joe -followed his friend through the window and was lost in the deep shadows -outside. - -John Stanley stood still where the two had left him. If two robbers had -suddenly come in upon him and quietly stolen his watch and diamond stud -and ring and left him standing thus, he could not have looked more -astonished. Where had been his usual ready anger that it did not rise -and overpower these two impudent young puppies, ignorant as pigs, that -they should presume to dictate to him, a Christian gentleman, what -habits he should have? And all because some straitlaced old maid, or -silly chit of a girl, who loved power, did not like something. Where was -his manhood that he had stood and let himself be insulted, be it ever so -humbly, by boys who were not fit for him to wipe his feet upon? His -kindling eyes lifted unexpectedly to the picture. The Master was -watching him from his quiet table under the arches of stone. He stood a -minute under the gaze and then he turned the lights all out and sat down -in the dark. The fire was out too, and only the deep red glow behind the -coals made a little lighting of the darkness. And there in the dark the -boy Joe’s face came back clearly and he felt sorry he had not spoken -some word of comfort to the wretched fellow who felt so keenly the -meaning of what he had done. There had been love for him in Joe’s look -and he could not be angry with him now he remembered that. - -Bit by bit the winter of his work for Joe came back, little details that -he did not suppose he ever should recall, but which had seemed filled -with so much meaning then because he had been working for a soul’s -salvation and with the divine love for souls in his heart. What joy he -had that winter! How sorry he had been to leave it all and go away. Now -he came to think of it, he had never been so truly happy since. Oh, for -that joy over again! Oh, to take pleasure in prayer as he had done in -those days! What was this that was sweeping over him? Whence came this -sudden dissatisfaction with himself? He tried to be angry with the two -boys for their part in the matter, and to laugh at himself for being -influenced by them, but still he could not put it away. - -A stick in the fire fell apart and scattered a shower of sparks about, -blazing up into a brief glow. The room was illuminated just for an -instant and the face of the Christ shone out clearly before the silent -man sitting in front of the picture. Then the fire died out and the room -was dark and only the sound of the settling coals broke the stillness. -He seemed to be alone with Christ, face to face, with his heart open to -his Lord. He could not shrink back now nor put in other thoughts. The -time to face the change in himself had come and he was facing it alone -with his God. - - - CHAPTER V - -It was the next evening, and the Forest Hill Mission had assembled in -full force. They were there, from little Mrs. Brown in her black -percale, even to Mrs. Ketchum, who had pocketed her pride, and in a -low-necked gown with a long train was making the most of her position on -the committee. She arranged herself to “receive” with John Stanley and -his mother, though she ignored the fact that Mrs. Brown and “those seven -hobbledehoy boys” were also on the committee. Occasionally she deplored -the fact that Miss Manning had not come, that she might also stand in a -place of honor, but in her heart she was glad that Miss Manning was not -present to divide the honors with herself. It appeared that Mr. Stanley -was delighted with the picture, had seen its original abroad, and knew -its artist. Such being the case, Mrs. Ketchum was delighted to take all -the honor of having selected the picture, and had it not been for those -truthtelling, enlightening seven boys, John Stanley might never have -known to this day Margaret Manning’s part in it. - -None of the central group saw Margaret Manning slip silently in past the -servant at the door, as they stood laughing and chatting among -themselves after having shaken hands perfunctorily with the awkward, -embarrassed procession headed by Mr. Talcut and the young minister who -had recently come to the place. - -When Margaret came down stairs she paused a moment in the hall; but as -she saw they were all talking, she went quietly on into the new wing -that had been for the time deserted by the company, and placed herself -in front of the picture. She had spoken to Mrs. Stanley, who had been -called upstairs to the dressing room for a moment just as she came in, -and so did not feel obliged to go and greet the group of receivers at -once. Besides, she wanted to have another good look at the picture -before she should go among the people, and so lose this opportunity of -seeing it alone. - -From the first view it had been a great delight to Margaret Manning. She -had never before seen a picture of her Master that quite came up to her -idea of what a human representation of his face should express. This one -did. At least it satisfied her as well as she imagined any picture of -him, fashioned from the fancy of a man’s brain, could do. And she was -glad to find herself alone with it that she might study it more closely -and throw her own soul into the past of the scene before her. - -She had stood looking and thinking for some minutes thus when she heard -a quick step at the door, not a sound as of one who had been walking -down the broad highly-polished floor of the hallway, but the quick -movement of a foot after one has been standing. She looked up and saw -John Stanley coming forward with an unmistakable look of interest and -admiration on his face. - -He had made an errand to his library for a book to show to the minister -in order to get a little alleviation from Mrs. Ketchum’s persistent -monopolization. He had promised to loan the book to the minister, but -there had been no necessity for giving it to him that minute, nor even -that evening. As he walked down the hall he saw a figure standing in his -library, so absorbed in contemplating the picture that its owner did not -turn nor seem to be aware of his coming. She was slender and graceful -and young. He could see that from the distance, but as he came to the -doorway and paused unconsciously to look at the vision she made, he saw -that she was also beautiful. Not with the ordinary beauty of the -ordinary fashionable girl with whom he was acquainted, but with a clear, -pure, high-minded beauty whose loveliness was not merely of the outward -form and coloring, but an expression of beauty of spirit. - -She was dressed in white with a knot of black velvet ribbon here and -there. She stood behind his big leather chair, her hands clasped -together against one cheek and her elbows resting on the wide leather -back. There were golden lights in her brown hair. Her eyes were looking -earnestly at the picture, her whole attitude reminded him of a famous -picture he had seen in Paris. He could but pause and watch it before -either of them became self-conscious. - -[Illustration: “SHE STOOD BEHIND HIS BIG LEATHER CHAIR, HER HANDS CLASPED -TOGETHER AGAINST ONE CHEEK.”] - -There was in her intent look of devotion a something akin to the look he -had seen the night before in the face of the boy Joe. He recognized it -at once, and a feeling half of envy shot through him. Would that such a -look might belong to his own face. But the remembrance of Joe brought -another thought. Instantly he knew that this was Margaret Manning. With -the knowledge came also the consciousness that he stood staring at her -and must do so no more. He moved then and took that quick step which -startled her and made her look toward him. As he came forward, he seemed -to remember how he had sat in that chair smoking a few nights before, -and how the vision of the “ladye of high degree” had stood where this -young girl now was standing, only he knew somehow at a glance the -superiority of this living presence. - -A flush at the remembrance of his visitors of the night before and their -errand crossed his face, and he glanced instinctively toward the chimney -cupboard to see if the door was safely locked. - -“I beg your pardon.” he said, coming forward. “I hope I do not disturb -you. I came for a book. This must be Miss Manning, I think. How comes it -that I have not had the pleasure of an introduction? They told me you -had not come. Yes, I met your father on the steamer coming over. Is he -present this evening?” - -It was the easy, graceful tone and way he had, the same that had -elicited the notice of the “ladye of high degree,” only somehow now he -had an instinctive feeling that it would take more than a tone and a -manner to charm this young woman, and as she turned her clear eyes upon -him and smiled, the feeling grew that she was worth charming. - -He began to understand the admiration of those awkward boys and the -feeling that had prompted their visit of the night before, and to -consider himself honored since he had a part in their admiration. - -Margaret Manning was prepared to receive him as a friend. Had she not -heard great things of him? And she knew him at once. There was a fine -photogravure of him given by his mother at the request of the -school—and unknown to himself—hanging in the main room of the Forest -Hill Mission. - -Their conversation turned almost immediately upon the picture. John -Stanley told how he had seen the original and its artist abroad, and how -proud he was to be the owner of this copy. The disagreeable experiences -he had passed through on account of it seemed to have slipped from his -mind for the time being. - -She listened with interest, the fine, intelligent play of expression on -her face which made it ever an inspiration to talk with her. - -“How you will enjoy reading over the whole account of the Last Supper -right where you can look at that face,” she said wistfully, looking up -at the picture. “It seems to me I can almost hear him saying, ‘Peace I -leave with you, my peace I give unto you.’” - -He looked at her wonderingly, and saw the mark of that peace which -passeth understanding upon her forehead, and again there appeared to him -in startling contrast his vision of the “ladye of high degree,” and he -pondered it afterward in his heart. - -“‘And this is life eternal, that they might know thee, the only true -God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent.’ He said that in the upper -room,” she mused, and after a moment, “was it then too, that he said, -‘For I have given you an example that ye should do as I have done to -you’? I can’t quite remember,” and her eyes roved instinctively about -the elegantly furnished room in apparent search for something. - -He divined her wish at once, and courteously went in search of a Bible, -but in his haste and confusion could not lay his hand upon one -immediately. He murmured some apology about not having unpacked all his -books yet, but felt ashamed as soon as the words were uttered, for he -knew in his heart the young girl before him would have unpacked her -Bible among the very first articles. - -At last he found a little, old-fashioned, fine-print Bible tucked in a -corner of a bookcase. It had been given him when he was a child by some -Sunday-school teacher and forgotten long ago. He brought it now, and -with her assistance found the place. - -“How I should enjoy studying this with the picture,” said the girl, as -she waited for him to turn to the chapter. - -“And why not?” he asked. “It would be a great pleasure to have you feel -free to come and study this picture as often as you like. And if I might -be permitted to be present and share in the study it would be doubly -delightful.” - -It was with the small open Bible on the chairback between them that the -file of awkward boys discovered them as they came down the hall, hoping -to find an empty and unembarrassing room where they might take refuge. -They paused as by common consent, and stood back in the shadow of the -hall _portière_, as if the place were too sacred for them to more than -approach its entrance. Their two earthly admirations were conversing -together, the Bible between them, and the wonderful picture looking down -upon them. They stole silent, worshipful glances into the room and were -glad. - -Then came Mrs. Ketchum with rustling, perfumed robes and scattered -dismay into their midst and broke up the brief and pleasant -_tête-à-tête_ to her own satisfaction and the discomfiture of all -concerned. - - - CHAPTER VI - -They were all gone at last, and the house was settling to quiet. John -Stanley went to his room, shut his door, and sat down to think. - -It had not been the unpleasant occasion to which he had looked forward. -He had not even been bored. He was astonished to find himself regarding -the evening not only with satisfaction, but also with an unusual degree -of exhilaration. It did seem strange to him, now that he thought about -it, but it was true. - -New interests were stirring within him. Or were they old ones? He had -gathered that group of boys about him with their teacher, after Mrs. -Ketchum had broken up his quiet talk with the teacher, and had talked -with them about the places he visited in the Holy Land, dwelling at some -length upon the small details of what he had seen in Jerusalem, and the -probable scene of events connected with the picture. - -He had grown interested as he saw the interest of his audience. He -realized that he must have talked well. Was it the intent gaze of those -bright, keen-eyed boys, listening and glancing now and again toward the -picture with new interest, as they heard of the city and its streets -where this scene was laid, that gave him inspiration? Or had his -inspiration come from that other rapt, sweet face, with earnest eyes -fixed on the picture, and yet showing by an occasional glance at the -speaker that she was listening and liked it? - -Yes, it had been a happy evening, and all over too quickly. He would -have liked to escort Miss Manning to her home, but her pony phaeton, -driven by a faithful old servant, came for her, so he missed that -pleasure. - -He found himself planning ways in which he might often meet this -charming young woman. And strange to say, the mission with its various -services stood out pleasantly in his mind as a means to this end. Had he -forgotten his firm resolution of a few days agone, that he would have no -more to do with that mission in any capacity whatever? - -If this question occurred to him he waived it without excuse. He was -pledged to attend the session of the school for the next Sabbath anyway, -to give in more elaborate form the talk about the picture and the scenes -in Jerusalem of which he had spoken to the boys. It had been Miss -Manning’s work, this promise, of course. She had said how grand it would -be to have him to tell the whole school what he had told her class, and -had immediately interviewed the present superintendent, who had been -only too delighted to accept the suggestion. - -And now he sat by his fire, and with somewhat different feelings from -those he had experienced a few evenings before, thought over his old -life and his new. Strangely enough the “ladye of high degree” came no -longer to his thoughts, but instead there stood in shadow behind the -leather chair a slender, girlish figure with an earnest face and eyes, -and by and by he gave himself up to contemplating that, and he wondered -no longer that the boys had given up many things to please her. He would -not find it so very hard to do the same. - -How earnest she had been! What a world of new meaning seemed to be -invested in the sacred scene of that picture after she had been talking -about it. He had followed up her desire to read the account with it in -view, and begged her most eagerly to come and read it and let him be a -humble listener, offering also in a wistful tone, which showed plainly -that he hoped she would accept the former, to let her have the picture -at her home for a time. - -It would be very pleasant to read anything, even the Bible, with this -interesting young person and study the workings of her mind. He could -see that she was unusual. He must carefully study the subject so as not -to be behind her in Bible lore, for it was likely she knew all about it, -and he did not wish to be ashamed before her. He reached over to the -table where he had laid the little fine-print Bible they had been -consulting earlier in the evening. It had been so long since he had made -a regular business of reading his Bible that he scarcely knew where to -turn to find the right passages again, but after fluttering the leaves a -few minutes he again came to the place and read: “Now when the even was -come, he sat down with the twelve. And as they did eat, he said, Verily -I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me.” - -The young man stopped reading, looking up at the picture involuntarily, -and then dropped his eyes to the fire. What was it that brought that -verse home to himself? Had he in any sense betrayed his Lord? Was it -only the natural inquiry of the truthful soul on hearing those words -from the Master and on looking into his eyes to say sorrowfully “Lord, -is it I?” or was there some reason for it in his own life that made him -sit there, hour after hour, while the bright coals faded, and the ashes -dropped away and lay still and white upon the hearth? - -Thomas, the man, looked silently in once or twice, and marveled to find -his master reading what seemed to be a Bible, and muttered “That -pictur,” to himself as he went back to his vigil. At last he ventured to -open the door and say in a respectful tone, “Did you call me, sir?” -which roused the master somewhat to the time of night, and moved him to -tell his man to go to bed and he would put out the lights. - -The days that followed were filled with things quite different from what -John Stanley had planned on his return voyage. He made a good start in -his business, and settled into regular working hours, it is true; but in -his times of leisure he quite forgot that he had intended to have -nothing to do with the mission people. He spent three evenings in -helping to cover Sunday-school library books and paste labels into -singing books. Prosaic work and much beneath him he would have -considered it a short time ago, but he came home each time from it with -an exhilaration of mind such as he had never experienced from any of the -whist parties he had attended. It is true there were some young men and -young women also pasting labels whose society was uninteresting, but he -looked upon even those with leniency. Were they not all animated by one -common object, the good work for the mission? And there was also present -and pasting with the others, with deft fingers and quiet grace, that one -young girl around whom all the others seemed to gather and center as -naturally as flowers turn to the sun. She seemed to be an inspiration to -all the others. John Stanley had not yet confessed that she was an -inspiration to himself. He only admitted that her society was helpful -and enjoyable, and he really longed to have her come and read those -chapters over with him. Just how to manage this had been a puzzle. -Whenever he spoke of it the young lady thanked him demurely, and said -she would like to come and look at the picture some time; but he had a -feeling that she would not come soon, and would be sure he was not at -home then before she ventured. This was right, of course. It was not the -thing, even in America, for a young woman to call upon a young man even -to read the Bible with him. He must overcome this obstacle. Having -reached this conclusion he called in his mother to assist. - -“By the way, mother,” he said the next evening at dinner, “I met a very -agreeable gentleman on the voyage over, a Mr. Manning. He is the father -of the Miss Manning who was here the other evening, I believe. Do you -know them? I wish you would have them to dinner some night. I would like -to show him some courtesy.” - -The mother smiled and assented. It was easy for her to do nice little -social kindnesses. And so it was arranged. - -After dinner it was an easy thing for John Stanley to slip away to the -library with Margaret Manning, where they two sat down together before -the picture, this time with a large, fine Oxford edition of the Bible to -read from. - -That was an evening which to John Stanley was memorable through the rest -of his life. He had carefully studied the chapters himself, and thought -he had searched out from the best commentators all the bright new -thoughts concerning the events that the imagination and wisdom of man -had set down in books, but he found that his companion had studied on -her knees, and that while she was not lacking either book knowledge or -appreciation of what he had to say, she yet was able to open to him a -deeper spiritual insight. When she was gone, and he sat alone in his -room once more, he felt that it had been glorified by her presence. He -lingered long before that picture with searchings of heart that meant -much for his future life, and before he left the room he knelt and -consecrated himself as never before. - -In those days there were evening meetings in the mission and he went. -There was no question in his mind about going; he went gladly, and felt -honored when Mr. Manning was unable to escort his daughter and he was -allowed to take his place. There was a nutting excursion for the school, -and he and Miss Manning took care of the little ones together. When it -was over he reflected that he had never enjoyed a nutting party more, -not even when he was a care-free boy. - -It came about gradually that he gave up smoking. Not that he had at any -given time sat down and deliberately decided to do so, at least not -until he found that he had almost done so. There was always some meeting -or engagement at which he hoped to meet Miss Manning, and instinctively -he shrank from having her know that he smoked, mindful of what his -evening visitors had told him. At first he fell into the habit of -smoking in the early morning as he walked in the garden, but once while -thus engaged he saw the young woman coming down the street, and he threw -away his cigar and disappeared behind the shrubbery, annoyed at himself -that he was doing something of which he seemed to be ashamed. He wanted -to walk to the fence and speak to her as she passed by, but he was sure -the odor of smoke would cling to him. Little by little he left off -smoking lest she would detect the odor about him. Once they had a brief -conversation on the subject, she taking it for granted that he agreed -with her, and some one came to interrupt them ere he had decided whether -to speak out plainly and tell her he was one whom she was condemning by -her words. His face flushed over it that night as he sat before his -fire. She had been telling him what one of the boys had said when she -had asked him why he thought he could not be a Christian: “Well, I can’t -give up smokin’, and we know He never would ‘a’ smoked.” That had seemed -a conclusive argument to the boy. - -[Illustration: “HE THREW AWAY HIS CIGAR AND DISAPPEARED BEHIND THE -SHRUBBERY.”] - -Was it true that he was sure his Master never would have done it? Then -ought he, a professed follower of Christ? He tried to say that Miss -Manning had peculiar views on this subject and that those boys were -unduly influenced by her; and he recalled how many good followers of -Christ were addicted to the habit. Nevertheless, he felt sure that no -one of them would advise a young man to begin to smoke and he also felt -sure about what Jesus Christ would do. - -It had been a long time since he had tried himself and his daily walking -with that sentence, “What would Jesus do?” He did not realize that he -was again falling into the way of it. If he had it might have made him -too satisfied with himself. - -There came to be many nights when he sat up late looking into the fire -and comparing his life with the life of the Man whose pictured eyes -looked down so constantly into his own. It was like having a shadow of -Christ’s presence with him constantly. At first it had annoyed him and -hung over him like a pall, that feeling of the unseen Presence which was -symbolized by the skillful hand of the artist. Then it had grown -awesome, and held him from many deeds and words, nay even thoughts, -until now it was growing sweet and dear, a presence of help, the eyes of -a friend looking down upon him in all his daily actions, and -unconsciously he was beginning to wonder whenever a course of conduct -was presented to his mind whether it would seem right to Christ. - -At last the happy winter was slipping away rapidly. He had scarcely -stopped to realize how fast, until one night when letters had come in on -the evening mail, one from England brought vividly to his mind some of -his thoughts and resolves and feelings during that return voyage in the -fall. He smiled to himself as he leaned back in the great leather chair -and half-closed his eyes. How he had resolved to devote himself to art -and literature and leave religion and philanthropy to itself! And he had -devoted himself to literature, in a way. Had not he and Miss Manning and -several others of the mission spent the greater part of the winter in an -effort to put good pictures and books into the homes of the people of -the mission, and also to interest these people in the pictures and -books? He had delivered several popular lectures, illustrated by the -best pictures, and had assisted at readings from our best authors. But -would his broad and cultured friends from the foreign shore, who had so -high an opinion of his ability, consider that a strict devotion of -himself to art and literature? And as for the despised mission and its -various functions, it had become the center of his life interest. He -glanced up at the picture on his wall. Had it not been the cause of all -this change in actions, his plans, his very feelings? Nay, had not its -central figure, the Man of Sorrows, become his friend, his guide, his -Saviour in a very real and near sense? - -And so he remembered the first night he had looked upon that picture and -its strange effect upon him. He remembered some of his own thoughts -minutely, his vision of that “ladye of high degree” with whose future -his own seemed likely to be joined. How strange it seemed to him now -that he could have ever dreamed of such a thing! Her supercilious smile -seemed even now to make him shrink. The prospect of her trip to America -in the spring or early summer was not the pleasant thing he had then -thought it. Indeed, it annoyed him to remember how much would be -expected of him as guide and host. It would take his time from -things—and people—more correctly speaking, one person who had grown -very dear. He might as well confess it to himself now as at any other -time. Margaret Manning had become to him the one woman in all the earth -whose love he cared to win. And looking on his heart as it now was, and -thinking of himself as when he first returned from abroad, he realized -that he was not nearly so sure of her saying “Yes” to his request that -she would give her life into his keeping, as he had been that the “ladye -of high degree” would assent to that request. - -Why was it? Ah! Of this one he was not worthy, so pure and true and -beautiful a woman was she. While the other—was it possible that he had -been willing to marry a woman about whom he felt as he did toward this -other haughty woman of wealth and position? To what depths had he almost -descended! He shuddered involuntarily at the thought. - -By and by he arose and put out the light preparatory to going upstairs -for the night, humming a line of an old song: - - “The laird may marry his ladye, his ladye of high degree— - But I will marry my true love,” - -and then his face broke into a sweet smile and he added aloud and -heartily, “if I can”—and hummed the closing words, “For true of heart -am I,” as he went out into the hall, a look of determination growing on -his face and the vision of Margaret Manning enshrined in his heart. - - - CHAPTER VII - -The visit of the “ladye of high degree” to America was delayed by wind -and tide and circumstance until the late fall, and in the meantime the -people of America had not stood still for her coming. - -Among other things that had been done, there had been put up and fully -equipped a sort of club-house belonging to the Forest Hill Mission. It -does not take long to carry out such schemes when there are two earnest -persons with determination and ability to work like John Stanley and -Margaret Manning. - -The money for the scheme had come in rapidly and from unexpected -sources. Margaret declared that every dollar was an answer to prayer. - -The house itself was perfectly adapted for the carrying out of their -plans of work. There were reading-rooms and parlors where comfort and a -certain degree of refinement prevailed. There was a gymnasium in which -the privileges and days were divided equally between men and women, and -where thorough instruction was given. There were rooms in which various -classes were carried on evenings for those who had no chance otherwise, -and there were even a few rooms for young men or young women, homeless -and forlorn, where they could get good board for a time, and the whole -was presided over by a motherly, gray-haired woman and her husband, -whose hearts were in the work, and whose good common sense made them -admirably fitted for such a position. - -But amid all these plans and preparations for better work John Stanley -had found opportunity to speak to Margaret Manning the words which had -won her consent to make his home bright by her presence and his heart -glad with her love. - -Their wedding cards had traveled across the ocean, passing midway the -steamer that carried a letter from the “ladye of high degree,” saying -that she was about to embark on her trip to America and rather demanding -John Stanley’s time and attention during her stay near his home. She had -been used to this in the days when he was near her home, and he had been -only too glad to be summoned then. - -His letter waited for him several days while he was away on a short -business trip, and it came about that he opened it but three days before -his wedding day. He smiled as he read her orders. He was to meet her at -the steamer on the fifteenth. Ah! that was the day when he hoped to be a -hundred miles away from New York, speeding blissfully along with -Margaret by his side. He drew a sigh of relief as he reached for pen and -paper and wrote her a brief note explaining that he was sorry not to be -able to show her the courtesies he had promised, but that he would be -away on his wedding trip at the time. He afterward added an invitation -from his mother, and closed the note and forgot all about the matter. - -And so it was that the “ladye of high degree,” instead of being met with -all the devotion she had expected,—and which she had intended to exact -to its utmost,—found only a brief note with a paltry invitation to his -wedding reception. She bit her lips in vexation and spent a disagreeable -day in a New York hotel, making all those who had to do with her -miserable. Then she hunted up the names of other acquaintances in -America, noted the date of that reception, and made up her mind to make -her haughty best of it; at least, when she returned home there was the -laird and the earl and the poor duke, if worst came to worst. - -The Stanley home was alight from one end to the other, and flowers and -vines did their best to keep up the idea of the departing summer indoors -that night when John Stanley brought home his lovely bride. - -It was a strange gathering and a large one. There were present of New -York’s best society the truest and best of men and women, whose costumes -and faces showed that their purses and their culture were equally deep. -And there were many people, poor and plain, in their best clothes it is -true, but so different from the others that one scarcely knew which -costume was more out of place, that of the rich or of the poor. - -It had been John Stanley’s idea, and Margaret had joined in it heartily, -this mingling of the different classes to congratulate them in their new -life. - -“They will all have to come together in heaven, mother,” John had said -in answer to Mrs. Stanley’s mild protest at inviting Mrs. Cornelius Van -Rensselaer together with Joe Andrews and the mill girls from the -mission. “That is, if they all get there, and in my opinion Joe Andrews -stands as good a chance as Mrs. Van Rensselaer. What is the difference? -It will only be a little in their dress. I think all of our friends are -too sensible to mind that. Let them wear what they please, and for once -let us show them that people can mingle and be friends without caring -for the quality of cotton or silk in which each one is wrapped.” - -The mother smiled and lifted her eyebrows a little. She could imagine -the difference between those mill girls and the New York ladies, and she -knew her son could not, but her position was established in the world, -and she was coming to the age when these little material things do not -so much matter. She was willing that her son should do as he wished. She -only said in a lingering protest, “But their grammar, John. You forget -how they murder the king’s English.” - -“Never mind, mother,” he said, “I shouldn’t wonder if we should all have -to learn a little heavenly grammar when we get there before we can talk -fittingly with the angels.” - -And so their friends were all invited, and none belonging to the Forest -Mission were omitted. Mrs. Ketchum, it is true, was scandalized. She -knew how to dress, and she did not like to be classed among the -“rabble,” as she confided to a few of her friends. “However, one never -knew what Margaret Manning would do, and of course this was just another -of her performances. If John Stanley wasn’t sorry before very long that -he married that woman of the clouds, she would miss her guess.” - -She took it upon herself to explain in an undertone to all the guests, -whom she considered worthy of the toilet she had prepared, that these -“other people,” as she denominated the Forest Hill Mission, pointing to -them with her point lace fan with a dainty sweeping gesture, were -_protégés_ of the bride and groom, and were invited that they might have -the pleasure of a glimpse into the well-dressed world, a pleasure -probably that none of them had ever had before. - -The “ladye of high degree” was there, oh, yes! Her curiosity led her, -and her own pique. She wanted to see what kind of a wife John Stanley -had married, and she wanted to see if her power over him was really at -an end. - -The rich elegance of her wonderful gown, ablaze with diamonds and -adorned with lace of fabulous price, brushed aside the dainty white of -the bride’s and threatened to swallow it up out of sight in its own -glistening folds. - -But the bride, in her filmy white robes, seemed in no wise disturbed, -neither did her fair face suffer by contrast with the proud, handsome -one. The “ladye of high degree,” standing in the shadow studying the -sweet bride’s face, was forced to admit that there was a superior -something in this other woman that she did not understand. She turned to -John Stanley, her former admirer, and found his eyes resting in -undisguised admiration on the lovely face of his wife, and her eyes -turned again to the wife and saw her kiss the wrinkled face of an -elderly Scotch woman with beautiful, tender brown eyes and soft waving -hair. The neat, worn brown cashmere dress that the woman wore was -ornamented only by a soft ruffle about the neck. The hair was partly -covered by a plain, brown bonnet with an attempt at gala attire in a bit -of white lace in front, and the wrinkled, worn hands were guiltless of -any gloves, but one of those bare hands was held lovingly between the -bride’s white gloves, and the other rested familiarly about the soft -white of the bride’s waist. There was a beautiful look of love and trust -and appreciation in both faces, and instinctively this stranger was -forced to ask the other onlooker, “Who is she?” - -“One of God’s saints on earth,” came John Stanley’s voice in answer. He -had been watching the scene and had forgotten for the moment to whom he -was talking. Not that he would have disliked to speak so to the “ladye -of high degree” now, for he was much changed, but he would not have -thought she would understand. - -“She is just a dear woman in the church whom my wife loves very much. -She is a natural poet soul, and you may be sure she has been saying -something to her which would be worth writing in a book, and which she -will always remember.” - -And then the “ladye of high degree” turned and looked at her old -acquaintance in undisguised astonishment. John Stanley must have noticed -this and been embarrassed a moment, but Mrs. Ketchum came by just then -to be introduced, and she proved to be the kindred spirit for whom this -stranger had been searching. From her was gained much information, some -of which astonished her beyond belief. She made one or two more attempts -to rally her power over John Stanley later in the evening, but she too -had fallen under the spell of the lovely woman whose eyes her husband’s -followed wherever she went, and she finally gave it up. - -The final surprise came to the stranger guest late in the evening, as -she was making her way through John Stanley’s study to the cloak room. -She had been told by the voluble Mrs. Ketchum that this room was Mr. -Stanley’s “den.” She had also noticed during the evening at different -times that people stopped opposite the picture that hung on the wall -over the mantel. She had not before been in a position to see what this -picture was for the crowd, but she had supposed it some master-piece -that Mr. Stanley had brought home from his travels. Her curiosity, or -her interest, or both, led her to pause now alone, and to look up. - -As others were held under its spell, so was this woman for a moment. The -beauty and expression of the work of art caught her fancy, and the face -of the Master held her gaze, while her soul recognized and understood -the subject. In great astonishment she glanced around the room once more -and back. Could it be that John Stanley kept a picture like this in his -den? It was not like the John Stanley she had known. - -And then a soft, little, white-gloved hand rested on her shoulder, and a -sweet, earnest voice said: “Isn’t it wonderful? I’m so glad to be where -I can look at it every day as much as I wish.” - -[Illustration: “THE ‘LADYE OF HIGH DEGREE’ . . . SAW THEM STANDING ALSO.”] - -Turning she saw the bride standing by her side. She scarcely knew how to -answer, and before she could do so she noticed that another had entered -the room, and she knew instinctively that Mr. Stanley had come. - -“That is one of my treasures. Are you admiring it?” he said in the -strong voice that seemed so unlike his old one, and the guest murmured -something about the picture, and looking about uneasily excused herself -and slipped away. - -They stood a moment before the picture together, the husband and wife. -They were tired with the evening’s talk, and a sight of this refreshed -them both and gave the promise of future joy. - -The “ladye of high degree,” passing through that hall, having purposely -come by another route from the cloak room rather than through the study, -saw them standing also, and understood—that she did not understand, and -went out into the night with a lonely longing for something, she knew -not what. - -As the two stood together the husband said: “Do you know, dear, that -picture has made the turning point in my life. Ever since it came in -here I have felt that his presence was with me wherever I went. And I -have you to thank for it all. And through it I have gained you, this -richest, sweetest blessing of my life. Do you know, I found a verse in -my Bible to-day that it seems to me fits me and that picture. It is -this: ‘The angel of his presence saved them. In his love and in his pity -he redeemed them.’” - - - - - GABRIEL THE ACADIAN - - BY - - EDITH M. NICHOLL BOWYER - - - - - GABRIEL THE ACADIAN - - =LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS= - - “‘_It is a heretic name!’ exclaimed Le - Loutre_” 3 - - “_Suddenly the girl raised her head_” 27 - - “_M. l’Abbé commands_” 42 - - “_But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears - for the priest_” 69 - - “‘_Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer_’” 82 - - “_Far away at the mouth of the inlet - . . . lay three small ships_” 91 - - “‘_And thou wilt make me a traitor too!’ - he cried_” 120 - - “_They sat down side by side before the - empty hearth_” 131 - -[Illustration: “‘It is a heretic name!’ exclaimed Le Loutre.”] - - - - - _There is a history in all men’s lives,_ - _Figuring the nature of the times deceased;_ - _The which observed, a man may prophesy,_ - _With a near aim, of the main chance of things_ - _As yet not come to life; which in their seeds_ - _And weak beginnings lie intreasured._ - —_Shakespeare, Henry IV._ - - - - - GABRIEL THE ACADIAN - - - CHAPTER I - -“It is the name my mother called me by,” quoth Gabriel sturdily. - -For a moment there was silence, save for a murmur of horror that ran -through the assembled Acadians at the daring of a boy who thus defied -the fierce priest; yet his bearing was perfectly respectful. - -“It is a heretic name!” exclaimed Le Loutre. - -“Pardon, _M. l’Abbé_, but it is said not. My father also bare it, and -his father before him. Never willingly will I be called by any other. -Did not my mother swear on the crucifix to my dying sire that his child -should bear his name? And to break a holy vow—is not that of all things -the most sinful, O _mon père_?” - -“Thy father died unshriven.” - -“My father was of the Protestant faith,” rejoined the boy quickly. “He -died faithful to his own, though far from the land of his birth. He -would have carried my mother to join the colonists in Virginia, where -abide many of his kindred, but the prospect of leaving our Acadian land -did not please her, and he loved her more than kin or country. My father -was a good soldier and brave, monsieur; he was but true to the flag he -served, and to which all we of Acadia have sworn allegiance, and daily -break our vows!” - -He raised his eyes of English blue, and looked straight into those of -the Abbé Le Loutre, black and angry as a thundercloud. - -A fine figure of a seventeen-year-old lad he was. At his age many an -Acadian youth was beginning to dream of wife and home all his own. Tall -and strongly built, his light curls tossed back from a brow whose -tell-tale fairness showed through the ruddy bronze left by the suns and -storms of Acadia. - -This time the exclamations of horror rose louder than before, and above -them was heard the piteous remonstrance of the village _curé_, “Ah, _mon -fils_, submit thyself to the good _abbé_.” - -Gabriel’s fearless glance swept the rows of dull Acadian faces. It -seemed to him as if in actual bodily fear the villagers crouched before -the enraged priest, who drove, rather than led, his timid, ignorant -flock, and the gentle _curé_, his subordinate. And the whip with which -he goaded them was none other than the ferocious band of Micmac Indians, -to whom he had been sent by the French government, nominally as -missionary, but in reality that he might keep the Acadians, by fair -means or foul, in a continual state of rebellion to their easy-going -English rulers. - -The murmurs died away into awed silence. Then, with a scornful lift of -the hand, Le Loutre turned from the boy and faced the trembling -villagers. His address at first was in the usual strain, only, if -possible, more intolerant and fanatic than at his last visit, and -Gabriel soon pushed impatiently out of the crowd, and flung himself down -upon the river’s bank. Presently, however, he found himself listening -intently. Here were threats more terrible, even, than of old. Gabriel -was brave; his father’s blood did not run in his veins for naught; but -for once he wondered not that his countrymen cowered beneath the lash of -that fierce tongue. - -“The people of Acadia are the people of my mother,” he often said, “and -I love them. But they are cowards.” - -And when he looked forth from the harbor mouth of Chebucto and swept -with his eyes the wide Atlantic, there burned in his young bosom a fire -that would have amazed his placid kinsmen had they known of it, content, -as they were, with the daily round of humble submission to the priests, -petty legal quarrels or equally petty gossip with the neighbors, and -daily tilling of the soil—a fire that was kindled a hundred years -before in one who sailed the seas with Raleigh, and which burned anew in -this young scion of an ancient race. - -“I want to go, to see, to do!” he would cry, flinging wide his arms. - -But now, as he gave unwilling ear to Le Loutre, his boyish heart sank. -Could the _abbé_ in truth fulfill these threats of driving the people to -French soil, whether they would or no? Could he force them, in the name -of God and the king, to forsake their pleasant homes in which the -English, whatever might be their crimes against the French, at least -allowed the Acadians to live in peace, unpunished too during all these -years for their want of loyalty to sworn allegiance? Gabriel’s eyes -traveled beyond that dominant figure, and dwelt upon the savage band of -“converts” gathered behind the priest. Yes, he could, and would! - -Wrapt in his own thoughts, Gabriel noticed neither the dispersion of the -people nor the ominous fact that his grandfather, Pierre Grétin, was -accompanied on his homeward way by Le Loutre himself. His eyes were upon -the flowing river, and the light step of his Cousin Margot failed to -arouse him. Her sweet face was close to his, and her small hand on his -shoulder ere he stirred. - -“Gabriel, I have somewhat to say to thee.” - -“What is it, _ma mie_?” - -“Wilt thou not depart to-night to thy friends whom thou dost sometimes -visit without the walls of the new Halifax, by the harbor called of us -Chebucto? There lives that English priest who taught thee discontent -with our blessed religion and with our beloved _curé_.” - -“Not with our _curé_, Margot. He is good; he makes all religion -beautiful and true. But wouldst thou blame me because my heart turns to -the faith of my father? That in which my mother might have found courage -to rear me had she lived?” - -“No, _mon cousin_, no, not blame. But grievous danger threatens all who -defy the _abbé_, and thee more than others, because of thy hated English -blood. But listen, Gabriel; dost thou indeed love Margot as though she -were thine own sister?” - -The boy was silent a moment, then he answered simply: - -“That I cannot tell thee, Margot, seeing that I never had a sister. But -I love thee as I love none other besides.” - -“That is well,” she said with equal simplicity, “because to save thy -life for my sake thou must act contrary to thy nature.” - -He sprang to his feet, his blue eyes flashing so that for a moment -Margot quailed before him. - -“You would not have me play the coward and liar?” he cried. “That I -cannot do, even for thee. I am an Acadian—yes. Yet neither of these -things will I be!” - -“I too am an Acadian,” replied the young girl with quiet dignity, “yet -am I not false. Timid I may be, for such is the wont of my sex.” - -“Pardon, _ma cousine_, pardon,” exclaimed Gabriel remorsefully. “Thou -knowest how it is with me; my heart beats, and the words rush, and it is -all over.” - -“Wilt thou never learn prudence?” she retorted, smiling. “We Acadians -have learned it in nigh forty years of lying helpless like a lamb -betwixt two snapping wolves.” - -“Prudence, dost thou call it, Margot? My father called it by a harsher -name; and even my mother said that was a poor thing we did, to live, a -free people, under one flag; untaxed, ministered to by our own priests, -the very necessaries of life supplied to us, and yet intriguing, forever -intriguing, with those of the other flag.” - -“The flag under which we live is an alien flag,” said gentle Margot. - -“That may be; but have we ever been called upon to fight for it? And now -that we are summoned to swear the full oath of allegiance, we have -richly deserved this mild rebuke. The French are cruel; we go with them -only through fear of the Indians.” - -“The _gran’-père_, he goes with none,” interposed the girl with a flash -of spirit. “He tills the soil in peace, meddling not with French or -English.” - -“Ah, but even he will have to choose ere many days are past; the _abbé_ -does not bring here his flock for naught. And,” cried the lad, clenching -his fists, “who would be a neutral? Not I!” Then more quietly: “Hast -thou not heard them tell, Margot, how when France yielded Acadia to -England we were free, all of us, to move within the year to French soil -if we would? But we would neither go nor remain and take the oath of -fealty; nevertheless we were permitted to stay unsworn for seventeen -years, intriguing then even as we do now. At last the oath was won from -us, and more than twenty years since then have come and gone, and once -again, because of our untruth and the cruelties practised upon English -settlers, the word has gone forth that we must swear anew. What kind of -a people, then are we, Margot, to be thus double-faced? Thirteen -thousand souls, and withal afraid of priests and Indians! Not daring, -not one of us, to play the man and come out boldly for the one flag or -the other. Oh, we are cowards—cowards all!” - -He flung himself upon the ground and covered his face with his hands. - -To simple, yet wise little Margot these bursts of passion on the part of -her cousin were almost incomprehensible. Her nature was a still, clear -pool, whilst his was as the young torrent leaping down the rocks, -unconscious of its own power, but eager to join the strong and swelling -stream beneath, upon whose bosom the great ships float down to the deep -sea. But although she did not understand, love gave her sympathy. She -kneeled beside him, and once more laid her hand upon his shoulder; but -the words she would have uttered died in her throat, and instead she -exclaimed in accents of terror: - -“O Gabriel, Gabriel, arise. It is the _gran’-père_ who calls, and with -him is still the _abbé_.” - -In an instant the lad was on his feet. - -“Gabriel, _mon fils_!” - -The thin, cracked voice floated across the meadows from the door of the -small hut, which was considered by even prosperous Acadians like Grétin -all-sufficient for the family needs. Without a moment’s hesitation -Gabriel took his cousin’s hand, and led her, half crying now, toward -their home, where the tall form of the priest was plainly visible, -towering over that of the grandfather. - - * * * * * - -These were stirring times for Acadie. Lord Cornwallis was governor of -the province—the Cornwallis described by Walpole as “a brave, sensible -young man, of great temper and good nature.” He needed to be all this -and more, for the Acadians were a difficult people to deal with. -Vacillating, ignorant, and priest-ridden, it was the easiest thing in -the world for the French to hold them in actual fact, while by treaty -ceding them to England, an alien power and race. Fear, however, played a -large part in French influence; and this was invariably the case -throughout the long dissensions betwixt France and England. Indian -savagery was winked at, even encouraged, by French authorities in their -dealings both with English and Acadians; and the fair escutcheon of -France was defaced by many a stain of blood cruelly, wantonly, -treacherously shed. That the Acadians should be in sympathy with France -rather than with England was natural; their wrong-doing consisted not in -that, but in their readiness to accept English protection while plotting -steadily with the French against the flag to which they had sworn fealty -rather than move to French soil. They were now in a somewhat sorry -plight. - -The long-patient English government, through Cornwallis, was requiring -of them a fresh oath, and better faith in keeping it, if they continued -to reside in the province, whilst the governor of those French -possessions, now called Cape Breton and Prince Edward’s Island, was -using every means in his power, hideous threats included, to induce them -to come definitely under the French flag. What those means might -eventually be even such young creatures as Margot and Gabriel knew only -too well. - -The cousins found their grandfather looking troubled and distressed, and -the priest still wearing the menacing air which had all that day awed -his village audience. - -“It is full time you of Port Royal bethought you of your duty to your -religion and your king instead of forever quarreling among yourselves, -and enriching pettifogging men of law. But for thee, Grétin, though -special indulgence has ever been shown thee, it will be well that thou -shouldst take thought for thy family before it is too late. Thou knowest -my flock of old,” alluding to his savage converts, “and the kind of -lambs they are. Homes await the loyal subjects of God and the king on -the Isle of St. Jean and Isle Royale, and if they see not what is best -for their own souls’ good I have the means to make them see it!” - -Grétin was both morally and intellectually the superior of those among -whom he lived, and he was also braver than his neighbors, but of what -avail is superiority when a man stands alone? It was for this reason, -combined with the habit of subjection to priestly authority, that he -replied hastily: - -“Yes, _M. l’Abbé_, it is even as you say. - -“This boy must be disciplined,” continued the priest sternly. - -“Yes, _M. l’Abbé_, so it must be.” - -It was at this moment that “the boy” presented himself, his head erect, -his face pale, and holding the hand of his cousin. - -“Drop the maiden’s hand and follow me!” was the _abbé’s_ harsh -salutation. “I have that to say which is not for feminine ears.” - -Gabriel obeyed, but there was something in his air which, though -promising submission, meant submission within definite limits. - -Le Loutre entered the hut and closed the door on the peaceful, pastoral -scene without, lit up by the rays of the declining sun. Then seating -himself on a bench, rude and plain as were the furnishings of all the -homes of the frugal and industrious Acadians, however rich in land and -stock, he addressed Gabriel standing respectfully before him. - -“What is thine age?” - -“I shall be eighteen at the Christmastide.” - -“Humph! a well-grown youth! Dost thou call thyself boy or man?” - -An irrepressible smile curled Gabriel’s fresh lips, but he answered -demurely: - -“Neither, _mon père_.” - -“Dare not to trifle with me, son of a heretic!” broke out the priest, -his imperious temper rising. Accustomed to see all men cringe before -him, this lad’s fearless demeanor was particularly galling to Le Loutre. -He controlled himself again, however, and proceeded with that -persuasiveness of which when it suited him he was master: - -“It is as man, not boy, I call upon thee this day to serve God and the -king, and to prove thyself worthy of the confidence I would repose in -thee. I give thee thy just due, thou hast a good courage, and it is men -of such mettle that Louis requires, _men_, hearest thou?” - -Gabriel’s frank, yet searching, gaze was riveted on the priest’s face; -and so keen were those blue eyes that Le Loutre shifted his, momentarily -disconcerted. For perhaps the first time in his remarkable career he was -conscious of difficulty in explaining the righteousness, according to -his creed, of “doing evil that good may come.” Not that he himself -doubted; he was too honest a zealot for that; but in this case -explanation was somehow not easy. - -“Thou knowest,” he said at length, “of this new oath that the heretics -would extort from God’s people. To keep them in the fold and preserve -their souls alive at any cost is my priestly duty; but in order to -accomplish this I must have loyal aid. My Micmacs waver, they have even -made a treaty with the English. This cannot be permitted to endure. It -is therefore the king’s wish that they be secretly encouraged to break -it, and to this end loyal Acadians in disguise must accompany them when -they go to Halifax. Later these same faithful subjects will continue -their work for the holy cause in the old way.” - -Le Loutre paused and regarded Gabriel fixedly. The boy’s face was alight -with sudden comprehension. It was not the priest’s custom to speak -openly of his plans, but he was fully aware that he was now dealing with -no ordinary dull-witted Acadian peasant. What an invaluable ally this -half-heretic lad would be could he only mold him to his will. - -Gabriel had not lived his brief span of life in Port Royal for nothing. -He already knew that Le Loutre was quite capable of using force to drive -the Acadians from their thriving farms to make new homes for themselves -on French soil, rather than that they should pledge their word to the -English again, even though that pledge might be broken as before. And -there was evidently some scheme more serious in process of hatching than -the well-worn one of painting and disguising Acadians and sending them -out with the Micmacs to plunder and slay English settlers. The ancient -farce of “Indian warfare” was to wear a new face. The existence of peace -between the two countries had never been any hindrance to French -scheming. Gabriel had only too vivid recollections of the fate of -certain Acadians, who had been cajoled or frightened into joining those -Indian war-parties, and who, when taken prisoner by the English, had -been disowned by the French and declared to have “acted of their own -accord.” - -The lad’s heart was heavy within him. If he defied the priest and -refused to stoop to that which in his eyes was baseness and treachery, -his life would be made a torment, nay, perhaps forfeited, none could -foretell where Le Loutre would stop. And worse, far worse than this, the -_gran’-père_, hitherto well regarded by the bigoted priest and granted -many indulgences, would be ruthlessly hunted from the dear home to the -bleak, uncleared shores of Isle Royale, or, as the English named it, -Cape Breton. The _gran’-père_—he was old—he would certainly die -without the strong grandson to help him. And Margot? Ah, it was too -bitter! In spite of himself Gabriel covered his eyes with his hand as if -to shut out the frightful vision. - -The face of Le Loutre glowed with triumph. He had not expected so easy a -victory. To his present scheme this youth, with his knowledge of the -English tongue and the customs of the fort, was well-nigh indispensable; -moreover, his intelligence and his sense of honor were alike keen, and -once pledged to him, the priest knew that he would never turn traitor. -Under pretense of trading in furs a French vessel had brought to Acadie -guns and ammunition enough to arm both Acadians and Indians, and the -latter were already being secretly bribed by the Intendant at Louisburg -through Le Loutre; for a signal act of treachery was now required of -them. - -But the priest had triumphed too soon. When at length Gabriel raised his -head, though his young face looked almost ghostly in the dying light, -his eyes were shining with high resolve. Not that the path of duty was -as yet perfectly clear before him, or that he knew whither it might -lead, but he was resolute to take no other. Nevertheless he understood -that mere defiance would not help either himself or those far dearer -than self. Therefore he controlled himself and said quietly: - -“_M. l’Abbé_ has without doubt heard of that _prêtre_ from the New -England who instructs a flock outside the walls of Halifax?” - -Le Loutre scowled darkly. - -“Art thou a heretic already? I feared as much.” - -“No, _M. l’Abbé_,” replied the boy in the same restrained tones; “yet I -confess that the faith of my fathers holds much of interest for me. And -he is good, _monsieur_, oh, good! like our own beloved _curé_.” - -Here he hesitated; then took courage, and went on rapidly: - -“He bade me always to remember, even if I should not in the end turn to -my father’s faith, that one of its noblest commands is: Never do evil -that good may come. Also that my father obeyed that command. O _mon -père_, choose some one else for thy purpose; one who is not divided in -heart as I, but who hates the English as my blood will not let me do, -and to whom the Holy Catholic Church is the only church!” - -For a moment it seemed as though the priest would strike the pleading -face upturned to his, so fierce a flame of wrath swept over him, but -instead he said with a sneer: - -“And thou wouldst thrust the words of a heretic down the throat of a -priest of God and the king? There is but one explanation, boy, thou art -a coward!” - -The hot blood surged into Gabriel’s cheeks. All his prudence was tossed -aside beneath the lash of that tongue. Flinging back his head he -confronted Le Loutre with an air which compelled, as it never had failed -to do, the reluctant admiration of the man to whom courage seemed the -best of God’s gifts to mortals. - -“_M. l’Abbé_,” said the boy, in the low tones of an unbending resolve, -“I am no coward; but I should be both coward and liar were I to do your -bidding.” - -For a breathing space the two pairs of eyes held one another like -wrestlers. Then: - -“As thou wilt,” rejoined the priest coldly. “But forget not that no -traitors to God and the king can dwell at ease in Acadie. Mine are no -empty threats.” - -He flung wide the door and called to the waiting Micmacs. As they -stepped out of the surrounding gloom, the pine torches carried by them -illuminated their ferocious countenances. Margot sprang forward and cast -herself upon her knees before the priest. - -“O _mon père, mon père_, do with me what you will, inflict on me any -penance that seems unto you good; but spare, oh, spare my cousin, if -only for the sake of the _gran’-père_!” - -The girl’s agonized pleading rang out into the night. Then, in a voice -rendered tremulous by years and infirmity, but still not devoid of -dignity, Grétin himself spoke. - -“_M. l’Abbé_,” he said, “the boy is of heretic blood—yes. But also is -he of my blood—mine, who am a faithful servant of the true church. If -he has been led astray, I myself will see to it that he returns to the -fold. For he is a good lad, and the prop and staff of my old age.” - -Le Loutre turned on the _gran’-père_ his piercing eyes. - -“Thou hast reason, Grétin. Thou hast indeed been a faithful servant of -the church, but art thou that now? Do not thy religion and thy king -demand of thee that thou shouldst leave, with all that is thine, the air -breathed by pestilential heretics, and dost thou not still linger, -battening in their green pastures, yea, feeding from their hand? Art -thou, therefore, fit to be the guide of erring youth? It may be too, -that thou wilt have to suffer for his sin if he repent not.” - -The old man bowed his head, and a low moan escaped him. - -“Hurt not the lad,” he murmured. “He is as the very apple of my eye.” - -“My Micmacs will look to his repentance,” retorted the priest grimly. -“In the saving of the soul the body may have to endure somewhat, but -holy church is merciful to the penitent.” - -As he spoke Gabriel sprang from the detaining hands, of the Indians, and -kneeling at the feet of the old man, lifted the shriveled fingers and -laid them upon his own fair head. - -“Bless me, even me, O _mon père_,” he cried. - -But the _gran’-père_ fell upon his neck and wept. - -“Oh, Gabriel, my son, my son!” - -Before he could so much as speak to Margot, the Indians, at a sign from -Le Loutre, relentless always in the performance of what he believed to -be his duty and now enraged by defeat, seized the youth and disappeared -with him into the forest. Lingering only to make the sign of the cross -over the helpless and bereaved pair, Le Loutre himself followed. - - - CHAPTER II - -Gabriel, hurried along through “brake, bush, and brier,” each arm -grasped by a brawny Micmac, had no time for thought. A grown man of -settled convictions might have found his situation a very labyrinth of -difficulty. How much more, then, a growing lad, unavoidably halting -betwixt two nationalities and two forms of religion? - -After what seemed endless hours, but which in reality was but a short -time, the party arrived at the settlement of wigwams on the bank of the -Shubenacadie. The priest was no longer to be seen. “Am I then to be left -to the mercy of these savages?” thought Gabriel. Yet close on the heels -of the thought flashed the consciousness that the Indians’ violence had -considerably slackened since the disappearance of Le Loutre. The bonds -with which they had tied their prisoner were so loose that he easily -slipped out of them, and approaching the squaws who were gathering wood -for the fires, he addressed them in their own language and proceeded to -help them. The braves merely turned their heads and glanced at him -indifferently. “Not enough gold!” he heard one mutter to another. He had -already heard that the Micmacs had grown shrewd enough to put their own -price on the harassing of recalcitrant or timid Acadians, and the taking -of English scalps; and like all ignorant or savage races had quickly -learned to overestimate their services and become insatiate in their -demands. Gabriel’s chances, therefore, depended to some extent on the -condition of the priest’s treasury; also on the fact that he was -personally acquainted with certain members of the band, to whom by -reason of his skill in woodcraft and familiarity with the habits of the -forest game he had not only occasionally been of service, but whose -respect he had won. - -“This is the white boy who knows even as does the red man the lair of -the wild deer and where in the noonday heat they turn their steps to -drink,” observed one to the other, as Gabriel, restraining every symptom -of fear, quietly joined the group around the now blazing fire and helped -himself out of the common pot. - -“Yes,” he put in coolly, “and I can tell you more than that if you -will.” - -There are natures, those of women as well as of men, whose vitality -quickens in the face of actual danger. They may be even cowardly in the -mere anticipation, but the trumpet-call of duty, honor, or sacrifice, or -the less high-sounding clarion of self-preservation, sets them on their -feet, face forward to the coming foe. In Gabriel all these forces were -at work, though Margot’s sweet, pale face and the _gran’-père’s_ bowed -gray head, were the strongest influences. And behind all these was that -irrepressible spirit of adventure, never wholly absent from the normally -healthy young mind. - -Drawing on his store of woodland stories, and occasionally pausing to -give ear to those furnished by the now interested Micmacs, an hour -passed in total oblivion by the captors of the commands laid on them -concerning their prisoner; and when at last a tall dark form suddenly -appeared within the circle of light, and a well-known terrible voice -broke forth in objurgation; it was plain that the owner of both was -scarcely more welcome to his “lambs” than to the prisoner. - -“What is that I behold?” exclaimed Le Loutre. “Where is your Christian -service, vowed to God and the king? Instead, I find feasting and foolish -gabbling, with a traitorous captive in the midst!” - -The faces of the Indians clouded in sullen silence. The lash of the -priest’s tongue went unsparingly on. At length the leader growled out, -“The pale faces from over the sea bring no more gifts. The red men grow -weary of taking the scalps of friendly white men who are at war with -your people but who do the Indian no wrong. They at the new fort have -treated us well. And as for this boy, you give us not enough to take the -scalp of so mighty a hunter and true a tracker.” - -Le Loutre’s face paled with baffled rage. True it was that owing to some -at present unexplained delay the customary large remittances from France -for the bribing of Indians who were friendly to the English were not -forthcoming, and with a heart-leap of joy Gabriel saw the truth written -in his eyes. - -“Fools! Did I bid you take his scalp? Did I not bid you rather to -chasten him for his faithlessness and force him back to his duty? This -you know well enough how to do without my guiding presence. Yet I come -to find——” - -With a gesture of unutterable scorn he waved his black-robed arm. - -But his personal influence was on the wane, and he knew it. It was -money, gifts, that were needed, and for these he must wait. Yet were -there still a few whose greed was of the kind that will take anything -rather than nothing, and on these he depended, and not in vain. - -Stealthily, like dark spirits, two or three Indians glided from behind -their companions, and took up their station beside the priest. -Strengthened by these mute allies he once more faced the group at the -fire, and proceeded to pour forth in fervid eloquence alternate -persuasion, threat, and glowing promise of future reward. Gabriel soon -discovered that he was not the central figure in this tirade—that -larger projects than the fate of one boy were being held before the now -attentive Indians, who uttered guttural notes of assent or dissent. - -“A hundred _livres_ for each scalp—a hundred _livres_, mark you! This -boy knows, as you cannot do, the plan of the fort at Halifax, and the -number of its defenders. If he be so mighty a tracker, let him track -these English dogs to their lair and fire them out of it, or in it, it -matters not which, so that to God and the king are restored what is -rightly theirs. But remember, a hundred _livres_ is yours for every -English scalp! My people may not do this thing, for they have signed a -peace with their enemies, but for your people it is otherwise.” - -“Have we too, not set our totems to a solemn treaty?” growled one -dissenting voice. - -Once more from the priest that gesture of contempt. - -“And what is that for such as you?” he said. “What is a broken treaty to -the Indian?” - -Gabriel, unable longer to contain himself, sprang to his feet. - -“_Mon père!_” he cried, his heart in a flame, a blaze of sudden -illumination in his soul. “Nay, never more _mon père! M. l’Abbé_, is -this, then, the Christianity, the fealty to God and the king, to which -you would have me faithful? Then, God willing, faithless will I be.” - -For a long minute there was dead silence, broken only by the quick -breathing of the excited boy. The Indians, though not fully -understanding the words, realized their daring, and gazed upon him with -all the admiration of which their anger was capable. - -“Do your work,” said Le Loutre at last coldly, signing to the Micmacs at -his side. - -In a moment Gabriel was thrown to the ground, his arms bound to his -side, his feet tied. A hole was dug in the ground, a post placed in it, -and around the post fresh logs were heaped. - -Such scenes, alas! were not uncommon under the despotic rule of Abbé Le -Loutre, and though no instance is recorded of actual sacrifice of life, -owing perhaps almost as much to Acadian timidity as to priestly -forbearance, much terror and temporary suffering were caused by his -blind fanaticism. But in this boy of mixed race there was stouter stuff -to deal with, and his English blood was to the priest as a thing -accursed. - - * * * * * - -Days passed, and Pierre Grétin and his granddaughter could obtain no -news of Gabriel. Tossed and torn by conflicting emotions, communal as -well as personal, the old man’s strength seemed to be ebbing from him. -Yet never did he need it more. The village of Port Royal (now -Annapolis), nay, all Acadie, was in the confusion of helpless distress. -What should they do, these poor ignorant habitans? To whom should they -listen? In their hearts they knew that every word of Cornwallis’ -proclamation was true, that under English rule they had enjoyed freedom, -both secular and religious. On the other hand, Le Loutre swept down upon -them continually with the firebrand of his eloquence. “Come to French -soil,” he cried, “seek new homes under the old flag! For three years _le -bon roi_ will support you. You are French at heart—what have you to do -with these English? Refuse, and the consolations of religion will be -denied you and your property shall be given over to the savages.” - -True, they were French at heart, the most of them, but not all; and -their tranquil, sluggish lives had drifted so peacefully on the broad -river of the English governor’s indulgence. It was almost worth while to -renew the oath of allegiance to these foreigners and sleep quietly once -more under their own rooftrees. But would they sleep quietly? Ah, there -was the rub! Le Loutre had ever been a man of his word. - -Therefore it came to pass that French ships passing to Isle St. Jean, -now called Prince Edward Island, and Isle Royale, now Cape Breton, had -for two years many hundred Acadians for passengers, some willing, more -reluctant, destined to semi-starvation and unutterable misery in the new -and desolate country in which their small stock of courage was to be so -grievously tried, and in which few of them plucked up spirit sufficient -to clear new land for their subsistence, but existed, or ceased to -exist, on such meagre supplies as the French government furnished them. - -“_Gran’-père_,” said Margot one evening, as bereft of most of their near -neighbors they clung almost alone to their humble home, “_mon -gran’-père_, what think you, has become of our Gabriel?” Her eyes were -heavy with weeping, her round cheeks pale. - -Grétin, in yet worse case, had scarce strength to take his turn with her -behind their yoke of oxen at the plow. He sat on a bench at the door of -the hut, both hands leaning heavily on his staff. For a while he -answered nothing, but his sunken gaze wandered along the banks of the -river, from one desolated home to another. In scarcely more than two or -three still burned the sweet fires of home, and those that were forsaken -had been plundered by the Indians, fresh traces of whose presence were -daily visible. The good village _curé_, beloved of all, and the -influence of whose noble life and teachings represented all that was -best in the Catholic church, was gone too. Torn by contending duties he -had decided that the forlorn exiles needed his ministrations more than -those still remaining in their homes, and had followed them to French -soil. - -“_Le bon Dieu_ knows, my child!” Grétin answered at last, in the dull -tones of hopeless old age. - -“Surely _M. l’Abbé_ would not permit that—that——” her voice broke. - -“That his fair young life should be destroyed by those savages? No, my -child, no—that can I not believe. Moreover, Jean Jacques, Paul -Pierre—they were his friends among the Micmacs. And _M. l’Abbé_—no, he -would bend but not break the boy.” - -There was a long silence. The evening dews, tears of the soil for the -banishment of her children, sparkled on the wide meadows beneath the now -rising moon. - -“Margot, we can no longer resist the priest’s will,” he said again, “and -alone we are not able to till the land, so that it may bring forth crops -for our sustenance.” - -But a burst of tears from the girl interrupted him. Flinging herself at -his feet, she threw her arms around him and hid her face in his breast. - -“_Gran’-père, mon gran’-père!_” she cried, “I will work! I can plow—I -can dig! I am young it is true, and small, but we women of Acadie are -strong. You shall care for the house—it is I who will till the land. -Let us not leave Acadie. Gabriel may return—sick, wounded, who knows? -and we gone, the house desolate! If _M. l’Abbé_ sets his Micmacs on us -to drive us forth, I will plead with them. They have hearkened to me -before now, they will again. If not, then we must go forth indeed, but -not yet, not yet!” - -[Illustration: “Suddenly the girl raised her head.”] - -Weeping they clung together. Suddenly the girl raised her head. A moment -more she was on her feet, gazing intently into the black depths of the -forest. - -“_Gran’-père_,” she whispered, “do you hear?” - -“Only the night-hawk, my daughter.” - -“Ah, but the night-hawk! Many a time have I heard my cousin call thus in -the woods in our happy play times. There, again!” - -Like an arrow from a bow she was gone, speeding through the long grass, -but keeping well in the shadows. - -The old man rose with difficulty. He was weary and cramped with the long -day’s work, of which since his grandson began to grow toward manhood his -share had until these evil days been slight. As the minutes crawled by -and Margot did not return, anxiety swelled to terror. The Indians—they -did not all know her. With shaking hand he took his ancient-fowling -piece from the peg where it hung. - -His vision was dim, and as he started blindly on his way, he found -himself arrested, gently pushed back into the hut, the door barred, the -small windows shuttered. All was done quickly and quietly, as by an -accustomed hand. Pine cones were thrown upon the half-dead fire, there -was a blaze of light, and Pierre Grétin fell into the arms of his -grandson. - -But joy sobered as Grétin and Margot surveyed their recovered treasure -by the additional illumination of home-made tallow dips. Gabriel, -indeed, was but the ghost of his former buoyant, radiant self. Only the -blue, brave light in his eyes betrayed the old Gabriel. His cheeks were -hollow, his frame gaunt, his home-spun clothing torn to rags. - -“That I can soon remedy,” said the little housewife to herself, as she -thought of the new suit in the oaken chest, set aside for his first -communion. - -Strange scars were on his legs and hands, and these Margot soon fell to -examining, a growing dread in her face, though he strove to draw his -fingers from her clasp. - -“Heed them not, _ma cousine_,” he said tenderly. “I have weightier -matters to speak of with thee and with the _gran’-père_.” - -“Speak on, my son.” - -“Nay,” said the girl quickly, “let him rest and eat first.” - -Glancing into the pot, which hung, French fashion, over the fire, she -added to it shredded meat and vegetables until the whole was a savory -mess. While she prepared it, the boy sat with his head in his hands, a -man before his time. - -The meal ended and the kitchen restored to its wonted order, Margot, in -whom, as in all Acadians, the frugal spirit of the French peasant -prevailed, extinguished the tallow dips; then, taking her seat on a -cricket at her grandfather’s knee, she eagerly awaited Gabriel’s story. - -This story of Gabriel’s was no easy one to tell; this he felt himself. -In the brief time that he had been absent from his home, brief in actual -duration, but to himself and to his loved ones so long, life had -acquired for him a wholly different meaning. Hitherto his nature had -been as plastic material prepared for some mold, the selection of which -had not as yet been made known. He knew now for what he was destined, -and was conscious that the boy was rapidly hardening into the man he was -intended to be. The fanaticism permitted in one of its most potent -instruments had upset his faith in the form of religion in which he had -been reared, and he was too young for the tolerance that is often the -fruit of a larger experience. Moreover, strange as it may seem, there -was in this generous, tender-hearted youth elements not unlike those in -the relentless and vindictive priest. The fanatic and the enthusiast not -seldom spring from the same root. But how to explain to these two, who, -dear to him as they were, could not be expected to share his -convictions? At last he roused himself. - -“First, dear _gran’-père_,” he said, “I must learn how it fares with you -and with _ma cousine_. God grant that you be left here in peace!” - -There was a pause. They too had their difficulties. How could they tell -him that Le Loutre might even yet have spared them their home had it not -been for what he called “the contumacy of that young heretic”? Margot’s -woman’s wit, however, came to the rescue and she told simply and -truthfully the tale of the gradual banishment of their people. “We still -are spared,” she concluded, “but it cannot be for long.” - -“Then my sins were not visited on your head,” said Gabriel eagerly. - -“As others fare, so must we in the end,” was the somewhat evasive reply. -“But come, my cousin, to thy tale.” - -So Gabriel began, but when he came to the scene of the torture, -hesitated. Margot’s indignant sympathy, however, divined what he would -not tell. - -“Was it very bad, dear cousin?” she cried, the tears in her dark eyes, -as she pressed his hand. - -“No, not so very bad,” he replied with forced lightness. “The friendly -Micmacs rebelled, and I do not believe _M. l’Abbé_ ever pushes things to -extremes at first. He strove only to scare me into submission to his -will, and I have got a bit of tough English oak somewhere in me that -doesn’t bend as do tender Acadian saplings.” He smiled down into his -cousin’s wet eyes. “Don’t weep, little cousin. See, I am well; none has -hurt me.” - -“Oh, but thou art thin, thou art pale, thou art changed,” she cried, -breaking down completely. “Oh, _mon gran’-père_, is it that we must love -and obey so cruel a priest?” - -The old man’s trembling hand smoothed her hair; he could not speak yet. - -“_Mon gran’-père_, Margot,” Gabriel said bravely, “I have that to tell -you which may grieve your hearts; but my mind is made up. I have, -indeed, changed since we parted. I am no longer a Christian as your -church holds such.” - -“Your church!” This could mean but one thing—their Gabriel was then, in -truth, a heretic! But the low-breathed “Helas, _mon fils_,” which -escaped the old man was not echoed by his granddaughter. She raised her -head and looked at her cousin, who had sprung to his feet and was pacing -the floor like a young lion. - -“No,” he cried. “If to do such in the name of the Father and the gentle -mother of a gentle Saviour is to be a Christian, then am I none! If to -be a missionary of the church is to spur poor savages on to be more -cruel, more treacherous, than in their ignorance they were, then heaven -grant that no holy church may ever receive them! If to be false to every -given vow, to strike the enemy in the back, to hate even as do the -devils in hell, is to be a Christian, then no Christian am I!” - -He returned to the fireside, and sinking upon the high-backed settle, -relapsed into reverie so profound as to become oblivious of his -surroundings. - -“And if thou dost proclaim thyself a heretic, _mon fils_,” observed -Grétin at length fearfully, “what is to become of us?” - -“Alas, at best what can I do for you, honored _gran’-père_? Is not even -now that vindictive priest on my track? And may it not be that he may -yet take my life because I will not aid him in his treacherous plot? I -have escaped him once, but only by the aid of Jean Jacques, and now that -gold has come from France, Jean Jacques will love French crowns better -than my life.” - -“_M. l’Abbé_ never takes lives, my son,” said the old man rebukingly. - -“And why not, _mon gran’-père_? May it not have been because none dared -oppose him?” - -Grétin sighed heavily, but made no reply, and Gabriel continued: - -“All here are his tools, the Acadians from fear, the Indians for gold. I -am no tool, and for that, if needs be, I must suffer. But you—ah, my -beloved and dear!” He sank impulsively upon his knees, and throwing his -arm around his cousin and leaning his head on his grandsire’s knees, -yielded himself to an abandonment of grief. - -Finally Margot spoke, quietly and decisively. - -“Dear Gabriel, thou canst indeed do nothing for us and thou art in peril -here. Thou must make thy way with all speed to thy friend, the New -England _prêtre_; he will succor and aid thee. Thou art like the -Huguenots and the Puritans; thou wilt have to suffer for conscience’ -sake.” - -She smiled bravely, but her lips trembled. - -“But you,” Gabriel groaned, “you!” - -The poor boy was passing through that bitterest trial of all, -experiencing what to all martyrs is worse than any fiery stake, the -helpless, incomparable anguish of bringing suffering on those dearer to -him than life. What if in the saving of his own soul alive he should -have to trample over the bodies of the beloved? Might not his course be -the very acme of self-seeking? What recompense could the martyr’s crown -confer for this mortal agony of vicarious suffering? - -But Margot’s steady, quiet voice went on; her soft touch was on his -head. Timid she might be, but ah, brave, brave too! - -“He will not hurt us, the _abbé_,” she said. “Do not fear, my cousin. If -thou dost stay with us, thou wilt have to act a lie every day. Even -should he refrain from pressing thee into his schemes, he will watch -thee, and not one single ordinance of our church wilt thou be permitted -to elude. He can be very hard, our _abbé_. No, dear Gabriel, vain is it -to strive to serve two masters; if of our faith, thou must remain here -and profess it; if of the other, thou must go.” - -She averted her head and further speech failed her. - -At that moment there was a violent knocking on the door. Gabriel was on -his feet at once, alert, resolute once more. - -“I knew he would track me,” he said, “but I had hoped not to be found -here, and neither will I. Adieu, _mon gran’-père_. God in very truth -keep you! Margot, the small door into the cowpen.” - -At a word from the girl, Grétin crept into his covered bed in the wall, -while she and Gabriel slipped noiselessly away through a back entrance. - -“Let us go with thee, dear cousin,” implored Margot, as they paused for -an instant among the cows, her fears for him making her once more timid. - -“_Ma chérie_, no! Ah, my best beloved!” - -He clasped her to his breast, kissed her passionately, as never before, -on brow, cheek, and lips, and was gone. - -On the house door the knocking continued, and the _gran’-père’s_ voice -was heard in the accents of one aroused from sleep. Margot, hastily -composing her features and trusting that the traces of tears would not -be visible in the light of the dying fire, re-entered the kitchen and, -after much fumbling and delay, opened the door. Without stood Le Loutre, -accompanied as usual by his “lambs.” Without deigning to address her, he -snatched a torch from one of the Indians and, striding into the small -house, explored every corner. Even the cowpen was not left unsearched. -On pretense of arranging the bed-covering, Margot bent over her -grandfather. - -“Delay him if you can,” she breathed; “every moment is precious.” - -But the priest was already at her side. - -“Where is the malicious heretic, at last avowed?” he thundered. - -“Ah, where is he, _M. l’Abbé_?” exclaimed Grétin, raising himself on his -elbow, endued with a sudden excess of courage at the thought of Gabriel -wandering alone through the perils of the forest. “Where is the boy, the -son of my loved and only daughter, my heart’s treasure? Where is he, -Gabriel, staff of my old age?” - -For a moment the furious priest was confounded. The color mounted to his -dark cheeks and he hesitated. The old man’s aspect was almost -threatening, and if fanaticism had left Le Loutre a conscience, it -surely spoke then. But the momentary weakness passed. - -“And thou wouldst shelter a heretic,” he said sternly, “recusant son of -Mother Church that thou art! But she chastens, if in love, yet she -chastens. Hope not for further grace. As for the boy, he must be brought -back into the fold. This I have ere now told thee, and I repeat it. Me, -the chosen instrument of God and the king, he cannot escape. Faithless -as thou mayst be, thou canst not keep him from me. This very night he -shall be forced back to his duty. As for thyself and the girl——” - -He paused, the terrible look in his eyes. But it was enough. Further -words were unnecessary. And as the torches danced away like fireflies -into the forest shades, Margot, now completely exhausted, flung herself -down beside the old man and, with an arm about his neck, wailed: -“_Gran’-père_, my _gran’-père_, they will find him!” - -And the hopeless response came: “_Ma fille_, they cannot fail to do it. -Let us pray.” - -Feebly he arose, and hand in hand the helpless pair kneeled before the -image of the sorrowing Christ. - - - CHAPTER III - -Concealed in the branches of a wide-spreading oak, Gabriel hoped against -hope to remain hidden from the Micmac trailers, now close on his heels. -White men his woodcraft would enable him to elude, but Indians hardly. -His very breathing seemed as if it must betray him. - -Listening thus, every nerve an ear, he heard a slight sound in the deep -glade beneath. To the novice it might mean anything or nothing; to his -practised understanding it was the crack of a twig beneath a human foot. - -Carefully he surveyed his position. The moon, though near its setting, -still afforded light sufficient to betray him should its rays fall on -face or hands. Then, for the first time, he perceived that, as he lay -face downward on a branching limb, the hand with which he sustained -himself was palely illuminated; the moon, in her swift course, had -penetrated the sheltering foliage. What should he do? To move meant -certain discovery. He resolved to lie still, the chances being slightly -in favor of absolute stillness. Then he became aware that some one was -standing beneath the tree. Now in actual fact he held his breath; for -though his sight could not pierce the leaves, every other sense told him -that it was an Indian. But his hopes were vain. Another moment and he -knew the tree was being climbed. - -As the green grasshopper clings, even after detection, blindly to the -leaf that it so closely resembles, so Gabriel clung instinctively to his -branch, and even when a sinewy hand grasped his ankle, made no sign. The -forest-bred boy obeyed the instinct of all woodland creatures; besides, -there was one hope left, faint as it was, and were he to move or speak -he might lose even that. - -“Wild Deer?” - -“Jean Jacques?” - -Wild Deer was the name by which the friendly Micmacs called him. Now for -the test. Was the Indian true? - -“Wild Deer, the great medicine man of your tribe is on the trail.” - -“I know. What wilt thou do? Betray me to him?” - -The low-breathed question and answer swept quickly back and forth. - -“The red man betrays not him who is skilled as himself.” - -“What wilt thou do then?” - -“Let Wild Deer descend and follow his friend.” - -Gliding to the ground with a noiselessness and rapidity equal to that of -the Indian, Gabriel, at a sign from his companion, followed him on his -sinuous track. Was he his friend? He had dwelt too long with the red men -not to dread the treachery which is the inevitable consequence of -centuries of savage and relentless warfare, tribe with tribe, red man -with white man. Nevertheless, he pushed on; what else could he do? - -The gray dawn peered beneath a veil of cloud before they paused on the -edge of the forest. Gabriel’s powers were well-nigh spent; ill treatment -and privation had sapped his young strength. The spot where they had -halted was the last camping-ground of the Micmacs. Going to a hollow -tree, Jean Jacques drew from it some strips of sun-dried beef and a few -dried leaves, which Gabriel recognized as those of the coca plant, on -which, when unable to obtain food, the red man makes arduous journeys, -lasting for days together. - -“Eat,” he said with native brevity; “then put these leaves in thy mouth -and chew them as we go. The strength of the pale face will come back to -him as that of the young eagle.” - -Gabriel obeyed, imitating the taciturnity of the Indian. When at length, -refreshed and strengthened, he arose to prosecute his attempt to reach -Halifax, Jean Jacques, with a grunt, declined not only to be thanked, -but to leave him. - -“I too go to the new fort,” he remarked calmly. - -“Thou wilt go?” - -A sudden suspicion overwhelmed him. Could it be that his apparent rescue -was one of the priest’s deep laid plots? That Jean Jacques, heavily -bribed with French gold, was but carrying out some scheme of treachery -which should involve the defenders of the fort as well as himself? The -supposition was an only too plausible one, given such a man as Le Loutre -and such lucre-lovers as the Micmacs. The Indian’s impervious -countenance revealed nothing. To question him would be vain. Well, he -must go forward and hope for the best; no other course was open to him. - -Silently, at the steady Indian dog-trot, the pair pressed on. As mile -after mile was covered, Gabriel’s strength seemed to renew itself, even, -indeed, as that of the young eagle; hope revived within his breast, -ministering to his keen vitality; and when at last the Indian paused, -and kneeling, examined in ominous silence a bent twig here, a crushed -blade of grass there, and finally laid his ear to the ground, Gabriel -was inclined to scout Jean Jacques’ fears and his own suspicions. - -“Feet have passed this way,” muttered Jean Jacques, “feet of red men, -with them a white man. Let Wild Deer put his head to the ground, and he -will hear them yet. But our trail they have lost. They wander, seeking -it.” - -Striking in the opposite direction, they proceeded cautiously. Then -again the Indian stopped and listened after his manner. - -“They come,” he said, as he once more arose, “many of them. They go to -the fort; but they will not go until they find Wild Deer to carry him -with them. But Jean Jacques will be his guide, he shall escape them.” - -At nightfall they crept beneath a pile of brush and leaves, concealing -the deserted lair of a gray fox, and Gabriel, worn out now, and happy in -the thought of at sunrise being free to abandon the circuitous route and -making straight for the fort, but a few miles distant, soon fell asleep. - -But there is many a slip, etc. It seemed to him that he had slept but -five minutes when he was aroused by a flash of light in his eyes, and he -opened them to find himself in the grasp of half a dozen Micmacs, behind -them Le Loutre. Jean Jacques was nowhere to be seen. Speechless, he -looked from one dark face to another; every one of them he knew to be -unfriendly, or at least corrupted by French gold. His young heart felt -nigh to bursting. So near the goal and to be thwarted thus! So near the -new life, in which, in his youthful enthusiasm, he believed he could be -true to the highest that was in him, true to his grandfather and Margot, -vaguely but ardently hopeful that he could save them. And Jean Jacques? -Had he indeed betrayed him? - -It was one of those moments of discouragement in which even the falsity -of an untutored savage can pierce the very soul. - -“Bind him, and bring him on!” was the priest’s stern command. - -Bewildered by fatigue, sick with disappointment, Gabriel offered no -resistance, uttered no word. He was dragged about a mile and then -dropped rudely by the embers of a camp-fire. Waving his “lambs” to a -distance, Le Loutre addressed him in accents cold as steel and merciless -as the hand that drives it home. - -“Have I not told thee that thou canst not escape me, I, the chosen -instrument of God to bring stragglers back into the fold? My duty is -clear. He who will not bend must break.” - -He paused, but his hearer made no sign. - -“Thou knowest what is demanded of thee. This day my converts go on a -friendly mission to the new fort. Must I instruct thee yet again in thy -duty?” - -He waited for the response that came not. Gabriel lay as if life itself -were already crushed out of him; every drooping finger of his strong, -right hand nerveless, hopeless. Yet must there have been something of -tacit resistance in his air, for Le Loutre continued in tones of -exasperation: - -“Opposition will avail thee nothing, and for thy grandfather and cousin -it will mean suffering and privation beyond their wildest dreams. Every -Acadian is rewarded according to his loyalty to the king and to the true -church. Hitherto I have spared them, but it is I alone who have the -ordering of their going, and of the new home to which they journey. The -_gran’-père_ is old, Margot more tender than is the habit of Acadian -maidens, yet must the church not stay her hand when the saving of souls -is in the balance. She must make example, she must discipline. I am no -man meting out man’s justice,” continued the fanatic, raising his hands -solemnly, “but chosen of the church to execute her righteous will. This -being so, thou wilt find me relentless in my duty.” - -Gabriel’s benumbed senses, together with the spirit that in some natures -never slumbers long, were reawakening. He found himself wondering why -this autocratic priest, before whom all trembled, should find it -necessary to explain his conduct to a mere boy. Then, as mental vigor -returned more fully, he drew his exhausted body into a sitting posture, -and said: - -“_M. l’Abbé_ commands that I shall go with these savages?” - -“Converts to the true church,” interrupted Le Loutre imperiously. “Who -dares call baptized Christians savages?” - -“I name them according to their deeds,” continued Gabriel, with a -certain manly dignity which had come to him of late. “Holy water on the -brow does not change the heart.” - -“It doth not!” cried the priest in the same tone. “Jean Jacques is a -pervert—perverted by thyself from the true faith.” - -“Yet he has played me false,” exclaimed Gabriel bitterly. - -“Dull-witted boy! Knowest thou no better than that?” - -Could it be? Was Jean Jacques faithful? Not only that, but free to help -him again? Hope kindled once more within his breast. Then he rose to his -feet and looked straight into the eyes of Le Loutre. - -[Illustration: “‘M. l’Abbé commands——.’”] - -“It is the will of _M. l’Abbé_,” he said again, “that I should go to -Halifax on this ‘friendly’ mission? The Micmacs will camp without the -fort, I shall be received within, and can then learn more than I know -already of its defenses and of the habits of its defenders. The Indians, -being friendly, will pass in and out with me, two or three perhaps only; -I am to guide them with what secrecy I may from one portion of the -stronghold to another, and they in turn will pass on their knowledge to -the waiting horde concealed within reach, and then at a given signal the -attack is to be made, and, they and I alike familiar with the weak -points of the fort and other matters, they will easily gain entrance, -and put all to fire and sword? Is this the will of _M. l’Abbé_?” - -Le Loutre looked back at him consideringly. Keen-sighted, as he was, he -scarce knew what to make of this boy. Then he said: - -“You swear it in the name of the Holy Mother of God?” - -“I promise nothing,” said Gabriel steadily. - -“Then,” cried the priest with a sudden burst of fury, “remember this: If -thou dost play the traitor——” - -“He can be no traitor,” Gabriel interposed, with a calm which compelled -a hearing, “who gives no promise, except that if it be within his power -he will defeat the plot laid.” - -“No matter what thou art,” burst forth Le Loutre again, “thou art false -to the faith in which thou hast been reared. But forget not that thy -course will be watched, and that if my commands are not obeyed thy -grandfather and cousin will pay the forfeit—yes, with their very lives. -Dost hear me?” - -Gabriel, pale before, whitened now to the lips. But he kept his -steadfast eyes on the priest’s face as he replied: - -“I hear, _M. l’Abbé_.” - - * * * * * - -The blue waves of the harbor of Chebucto leaped gayly landward before -the strong south wind. On the wooden ramparts of Halifax the sentinels -kept watch, specks of scarlet betwixt the blue of sea and sky, moving, -automaton-like, on their appointed rounds. But the automatons possessed -eyes, nevertheless, and those directed north were riveted on a band of -Indians who, since sunrise, had been busy getting into camp about half a -mile from the post. - -The British colony at Halifax was now, counting those within and without -its walls, over three thousand strong, and though the settlers without -had been sorely harassed by Indians—whom the governor was beginning at -last to suspect were set on by the French, despite the peace nominally -existing between the two nations—they continued to thrive and increase. -The Indians at present camping so near were soon recognized as Micmacs, -who had made a solemn treaty with the British the previous year, -consequently their appearance created but slight interest. - -In his own simple apartments the “brave, sensible young man, of great -temper and good nature,” was writing, with what for him was unusual -irascibility, a letter to the Bishop of Quebec. But his patience had -been sorely tried. “Was it you,” he wrote, “who sent Le Loutre as a -missionary to the Micmacs? And is it for their good that he excites -these wretches to practise their cruelties against those who have shown -them every kindness? The conduct of the priests of Acadia has been such -that by command of his majesty I have published an order declaring that -if any one of them presumes to exercise his functions without my express -permission he shall be dealt with according to the laws of England.” - -Having finished his letter he gave orders that the French priest, -Girard, should be invited to a final audience. Obedient to the summons, -an elderly man, of strong and gentle countenance, made his appearance. -Bidding him be seated, Cornwallis addressed him courteously in French. - -“_M. le Curé_,” he began, “you know that you are one of very few who -have been required to take the oath to do nothing contrary to the -interests of the country I serve. Is not that so?” - -The priest bent his head with quiet dignity. - -“I believe now that of you it was not necessary to exact it.” - -“Pardon, _M. le Gouverneur_, of me it was not exacted. I rendered it.” - -“Pardon, _M. le Curé_, you are in the right. I owe you an apology.” - -“_Monsieur_ has nothing for which to make amends. He is all honor and -generosity.” - -Cornwallis bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, then continued: - -“There are many, however, of whom it would be as well for these simple -Acadians as for helpless English settlers that the oath of allegiance to -my king were demanded. This Abbé Le Loutre, for example, he is a very -firebrand. Nay, rather a wolf in sheep’s clothing, working havoc in the -poor, silly flock. Know you him, _M. le Curé_?” - -The priest lowered his eyes. - -“_M. le Gouverneur_,” he replied in a constrained tone, “it is contrary -to the habit of my order to say of our superior, He is wrong or he is -right.” - -“Once more, pardon!” cried the younger man frankly. “I made an error. -Tell me, M. Girard, on your return to Cobequid, what course will you -pursue?” - -“In accordance with my oath, _M. le Gouverneur_, I shall inform M. -Longueuil that I can make no effort to prevent my people from submitting -to you, according to their own desires.” - -“And what, think you, your governor will reply?” - -“I know not, _monsieur_, but it is probable that I shall be compelled to -retire from my position.” - -The two men, of different creed and antagonistic blood, looked each -other full in the face. Then, with manifestations of mutual respect, -clasped hands. - -“Adieu, _M. le Curé_.” - -“Adieu, _M. le Gouverneur_. The saints have you in their holy keeping, -and bring you to the shelter of the true fold.” - -But as Girard turned to go, Cornwallis spoke again: - -“M. Girard, there is a lad here, half Acadian, half British, know you -aught of him?” - -“Gabriel—ah, the hard name! I cannot call it.” - -“Yet did the name and he that originally bore it sail once with your own -conquering William from the land of your birth. Champernowne—it is a -Norman name—and you, you yourself come from _la belle Normandie_, is it -not so, _M. le Curé_?” - -“It is true, _monsieur_. But this boy, I have heard of him from the -_curé_ at Port Royal. He is a good boy, though, alas, no longer of our -faith.” - -“He is to be trusted?” - -“So I have been assured, _monsieur_.” - -Meanwhile another scene was being enacted under the eastern rampart. “In -the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Gabriel, I baptize -thee.” - -The brief ceremony was at an end, and the few witnesses departed. - -Feeling somehow encouraged by this open profession of his inward -convictions to thread the difficult maze that lay before him, Gabriel -joined the New England minister at his frugal meal, and then at his -advice betook himself to an upper chamber to rest his weary body. But -rest to aching heart and tired brain would not come. In whom should he -confide? What should he do? Even his knowledge of the English tongue was -limited, though it fitted readily to his own, and he felt that he would -soon be master of it. Of but one thing was he certain; come what would, -he must now cast in his lot with his father’s race. There were ways by -which he could earn his bread—he, active and vigorous and accustomed to -labor. And the colonists, they would need defenders; he could handle a -musket with the best, and endure long marches. Then, with a groan he -turned his face to the wall. Margot—the grandfather! Like a knife -turning in his heart the harrowing dread would not be stilled. Nothing -could be done, no revelation of intended treachery made, until these two -were beyond the reach of Le Loutre and his terrible threats. And the -days would slip past as the hours were slipping now. Could, would, the -English governor help them? Then slowly, like swallows sailing -circlewise ever nearer and nearer their resting place, his revolving -thoughts settled down upon their nest. Yes, there was one hope. He -sprang from the bed and was out of the house in less time than it takes -to write the words. - -“M. Girard, M. Girard,” he said to himself as he hastened along. But -when he arrived at the priest’s lodging, he was informed that _M. le -Curé_ had started two hours before for Cobequid. - -The woman of the house, mother herself of stalwart sons, felt her heart -stir in pity for this splendid-looking youth, with the “air noble” and -the sad face. She was a former parishioner of M. Girard, an Acadian come -hither from Cobequid. - -“But see,” she said, following him out of the door, “_M. le Curé_ was to -tarry awhile at the Indian camp. Maybe he is still there.” - -With a word of thanks Gabriel hastened away. Yet back to the Indian -camp, that nest of traitors. There was, however, no help for it. In any -case he would have to return to the camp at nightfall, for he was -closely watched, and his plans were not yet ripe for defying his dusky -guardians, two or three of whom on the morrow expected to be conducted -within the walls of Halifax. To obtain private speech with the _curé_ -would no doubt be difficult, but it must be done. Fortune favored him. -As he skirted the low hills to the eastward of the camp, watching his -opportunity, he beheld a man in priestly garb, escorted by some Cobequid -Acadians, who had voluntarily visited Halifax to take the new oath of -allegiance, making his way across the levels in the direction of the -forest. Girard’s adieu to Le Loutre’s “lambs” was, then, made. Weary and -spent as he was, Gabriel put forth his last remaining strength and ran -swiftly forward to intercept the party. He accomplished his object, and -standing respectfully before the priest returned his gentle greeting. - -“And who art thou, my son?” - -“My name, _mon père_, is Gabriel, grandson of Pierre Grétin, habitan of -Port Royal.” - -A long-drawn “Ah!” escaped M. Girard’s lips. Then taking the boy by the -arm he led him out of earshot, and seating himself on a small hillock, -said kindly: - -“Rest, my son. The sun is yet some hours high, and thou art weary, and -hast a tale to tell.” - -“Oh, _mon père_!” cried Gabriel, then stopped, unable to proceed. - -This son of a mixed race could be steadfast as well as brave, but that -intense vitality which sends the warm life-blood coursing through the -veins like a torrent instead of as a calm and sluggish stream, even -while acting as a spur to noble endeavor and keeping the heart forever -young, exacts also its penalties. Now that the moment had arrived on -which all his hopes hung, Gabriel was past speech. He lay face downward -on the short turf, struggling with a burst of passionate tears that -would not be repressed. - -“Weep, my son, weep,” said the kind old man, laying his hand on the fair -head, “thou hast endured much, and thou art but a lad. Moreover, thou -hast this day solemnly abjured thy mother’s faith. I reproach thee not, -but for a youth such as thou, thou didst take upon thyself a grave -responsibility.” - -But Gabriel was pulling himself together, and presently he sat up and -shook the curls back from his eyes. - -“_Mon père_,” he said, still clinging to the old loved title familiar to -him from earliest childhood, “that I know; I considered long; and forget -not that the faith to which I have turned was the faith of my father. -But it is not of myself I would speak, it is of those dearer to me than -life.” - -Then briefly he narrated the events that had occurred, his forced -abandonment of his grandfather and cousin, their desolate and helpless -condition, and the _abbé’s_ threats should he fail in the task demanded -of him. - -“And this task I cannot and will not fulfill,” concluded Gabriel firmly; -“then should I be traitor indeed.” - -M. Girard’s face had grown very sad. The conduct of Le Loutre had caused -him and many another gentle-hearted priest much sorrow. Yet he was the -superior; his authority could not be questioned. He remained silent for -a while; then spoke, not without hesitation. - -“My son,” he said, “there is a way, but even that way is not without -difficulties. Thy cousin—Margot—our Acadian youth are often -householders at thine age. Yes, I know, those of English blood are more -backward in such matters, but there must be true affection betwixt you, -and for thy wife she is altogether suitable. Thus thou couldst protect -her and the _gran’-père_ also. The saints forbid that I should encourage -a union betwixt a heretic and a daughter of the church were there any -other way, and did I not hope much from her influence. Wives have -brought erring husbands back to the true fold ere now, and thou art -scarce experienced enough to have embraced for reasons that will endure -another faith. It was resentment, not conviction, that led thee astray. - -“Among the Acadians protected by the fort the followers of the Holy -Catholic Church dwell in peace, ministered to by priests who have taken -the oath of allegiance to the English king. There, with Margot for thy -wife, thou wilt return to the true faith.” - -The good old priest, pleased with the future his imagination had -created, rambled on. But after the first Gabriel hardly heard him. -_Margot his wife!_ The hot blood flamed to cheek and brow, then the -flash faded, leaving him paler than before. Who was it that dared thus -to handle the sweet familiar affection, from whose leaves the delicate -bud, destined in the fullness of time to expand into the radiant flower -of a strong man’s love, peeped forth so timidly that he himself had not -yet ventured to do more than glance at it and then avert his eyes? When -had he first known that those cool, green leaves held for him such a -pearl of price? It was at his last parting from Margot, when forced to -flee and leave those so helpless and so dear to the mercy of Le Loutre. -The remembrance of this parting had never left him, despite danger, -suffering, dread, not for one little hour. But that any one should speak -of that of which he had never yet spoken to himself! Gradually, however, -the sense of shock, of desecration, faded; and when after a long and -patient waiting M. Girard addressed him almost in the very words once -used by the _abbé_, but with very different intention, his answer this -time was prompt and decisive. - -“_Mon fils_, art thou boy or man?” - -“I am a man, _mon père_.” - -“Well, think on what I have said.” - -The priest gathered up his skirts and arose. - -“But, Margot, _mon père_? Her desires may be quite other——” - -Gabriel’s cheeks were hot again. He faltered in his speech. The old man -looked him up and down. Yes, he was a goodly youth. A queer little smile -flickered on the priest’s thin-lipped mouth, but all he said was: - -“My son, these things arrange themselves.” - -He turned to go. Gabriel stood where he had left him, dreamy-eyed and -quiet. Then, with a start he came to himself. He was allowing M. Girard -to go, and nothing was settled. This was no time for dreams impossible -of immediate fulfillment; there was work to be done, and that quickly. -With one bound he had overtaken the priest and laid his hand on his arm. - -“But soon—in a day, two days—the _abbé_ will know me disobedient -here,” he cried. “I cannot go to Port Royal, neither can the -_gran’-père_ endure the toilsome journey hither. O _mon père_, advise, -counsel me.” - -The priest paused, irresolute. - -“My son, in this matter of the fort I cannot advise thee. For the -_gran’-père_ and the little Margot I will give them what protection I -may. _M. l’Abbé_ visits Cobequid on matters concerning the oath I have -taken, and I will represent to him that thou art one whom to drive is -vain, but that thou canst be led. Put thy faith in the Holy Mother, _mon -fils_, she will intercede for thee and thine. Ah, I had forgotten, thou -art no longer of the faith. Adieu, then, poor youth.” - -With a cold chill at his heart, and a sense of desolation such as never -in his young life he had felt before, Gabriel watched the figure of him -who represented his last hope disappear into the now darkening shades of -the forest. - -But sometimes it happens that hope is never so near us as when we deem -her fled. As Gabriel slowly bent his steps toward the settlement by the -way that he had come, a dusky form glided out from the hills and -confronted him. - -“I have sought Wild Deer long,” said a well-known voice, “and at last I -find him.” - -“Jean Jacques.” - -“It is he. But say not that Jean Jacques was faithless to the paleface -boy. He was not. Let Wild Deer clasp hands with the Micmac, and all may -yet be well.” - - - CHAPTER IV - -Night had closed in around the new fort of Halifax and upon the houses -clustered about its walls. With a beating heart Gabriel leaned against -the postern, waiting for the expected summons from the lambs of Le -Loutre. What if his plans should fail? What if the governor’s trust in -the word of a mere boy should falter? What if the feet of Jean Jacques -should waver ere the goal was reached? - -Gabriel had followed that rarely misleading impulse which impels one -soul of honor to confide in another, no matter what the dividing line -between them, whether of sex, age, or degree. Cornwallis knew all, and -Jean Jacques was on his way to remove the _gran’-père_ and Margot to a -place of safety, if yet there might be time. - -Time! Yes, time was all that Gabriel needed for the escape of those whom -he loved, happen what might to himself. Yet on his own safety theirs in -part depended, he thought. How should the riddle be solved? - -The peace and well-being of those two once secured, he would spread his -untried wings and do more than merely dream of a new life beyond the -bars of the narrow cage in which his life had hitherto been passed. He -longed to lead a man’s life,—worthy of Margot, worthy of his dead -father,—not that of a dull steer hitched to a plow! - -He had not told Cornwallis that among the Micmacs incited to this deed -of treachery there were in all probability some of his own countrymen -disguised as Indians. It was the policy of Le Loutre to induce by -threats or bribes the more or less reluctant Acadians to perform such -services. It was easy for the priest to protest in case of the capture -of the Acadians that it was not the French who had broken the peace, but -the inhabitants themselves, of their own free will. The Acadians were -useful for the encouragement of the Indians; therefore were they used. -Gabriel reasoned that not until the presence of the Acadians was -discovered would the time arrive to plead for them. The governor was a -man of kind heart as well as of good sense, and the boy would represent -to him the simplicity and ignorance of these his country-people, who, -although not loving those of alien blood, would assuredly have lived -peaceably under their rule, had it not been for their priest’s threats -and their terror of eternal damnation. Gabriel knew, but would never -add, that the cowardice of weak natures was allied with its almost -inevitable comrades, deceit and untruthfulness. - -Whilst Gabriel waited without, Cornwallis sat in his room, the tallow -candles in the silver sconces brought from England shedding their -flaring light upon his bowed head. He had dismissed his council and was -alone with his secretary. His kind, manly face was clouded with -dejection. His term of service was drawing to a close, and despite his -efforts, the Acadians were no better off than before. Presently he arose -and began pacing the floor. - -“Poor, unhappy people!” he exclaimed. “Why cannot they understand that -France but uses them as in the ancient fable the monkey used the cat? -They were contented enough before this priest came to scare their small -wits out of them.” - -“Yet, my lord,” put in the secretary, “I have heard that the Acadians -were ever a contentious race, given to petty strife and over fond of the -law.” - -The governor smiled. - -“And who would deny them those simple joys in their dull lives? Their -harmless disputes kept the sluggish blood moving in their veins and -serious trouble was rare. Now all is changed. If by their vacillation -they drive us to stern courses, sad, alas, will be their fate. We have -borne much treachery, but the end is at hand.” - -“It will be well for them, my lord, if your successor is as forbearing -as yourself,” observed the secretary gathering up his papers. - -There was a knock at the door, and Gabriel’s fair head appeared. - -“They are here, my lord,” he said in a low voice. - -“Do you retire, then, my son,” replied the governor; “your safety -demands that you should not know too much if it be that you still desire -to go with these savages.” - -“It is my only hope, my lord.” - -“And if you fail?” Cornwallis added, laying his hand kindly on the boy’s -shoulder. “What then? Remember, that if you find neither Jean Jacques -nor those dear to you, the country to whom your father proved his -allegiance owes you in turn something.” - -“Whether my quest be vain or no,” and Gabriel’s voice faltered, “God -sparing me, I shall return to serve under the flag for which my father -fought and died, and in the faith that was his.” - -“God keep you, then,” said the governor fervently, and turned aside. - -Great, indeed, was the astonishment of Jean Baptiste Cope, the favorite -chief of Le Loutre, when he found himself ushered into the presence of -the governor. He knew that the priest had commanded Gabriel to take -advantage of his knowledge of the fort and of the habits of the sentries -to admit the Micmacs into the building at the dead of night, while all -save the sentries slept; yet here was the dead of night and here stood -the governor himself, cool and grave, and the fort was alive with -wakeful and armed men. - -Cornwallis held in hand a treaty of peace, to which these same Micmacs -had solemnly affixed their totems less than one year before. He was -empowered by his government to go to almost any length in the matter of -bribes and presents to bind the Indians to peace, as by such means alone -was peace for the whole unhappy country to be secured. Le Loutre, -deprived of his lambs, would be practically powerless to stir up strife. -Already Cornwallis foresaw the tragic outcome of this long-continued -trouble. The vacillations and treachery of the wretched Acadians -rendered justice, law, and order alike impossible, and peace and -prosperity were out of the question so long as they hesitated betwixt -two masters. That Le Loutre was well paid for his services Cornwallis -was assured. As the French minister wrote to Prévost, the intendant at -Louisbourg, a French possession in Acadie: “The fear is that the zeal of -Le Loutre and Maillard,” another equally bigoted priest, “may carry them -too far. Excite them to keep the Indians in our interest, but do not let -them compromise us. Act always so as to make the English appear as -aggressors.” - -Bearing these things in mind, Cornwallis bent all his energies to -winning over the Micmac lambs, and after a long pow-wow, the pipe of -peace was again smoked and “Major” Cope, as he called himself, swore for -his tribe allegiance to the English government. Laden with gifts and -escorted by the governor in person, they forsook their camp the -following afternoon and embarked on a small schooner, manned by an -English crew which outnumbered the little band of savages. With them -went Gabriel. - -Four weeks later Prévost wrote to the French minister: “Last month the -savages took eighteen English scalps, and M. Le Loutre was obliged to -pay them eighteen hundred _livres_, Acadian money, which I have -reimbursed him.” - -And the _gran’-père_ and Margot, where were they? - -Jean Jacques, with the subtlety of his race, did not go direct to -Annapolis. He was aware that many of the Acadians had been induced by Le -Loutre to leave the river valley and had betaken themselves to the -larger settlement of Beaubassin; and later rumors had reached him that -the English were about to lay claim to their own and send a small force -under Lawrence—destined to be governor of the province—to quell the -constant disaffection created by the French troops at Beauséjour, across -the Missaguash. It was to Beaubassin, then, that the Micmac turned his -steps. - -He arrived to find a scene of wild terror; that which has been termed -the first expulsion of the Acadians was in full progress. - -It was evening, and the western sky was dark with clouds, but as Jean -Jacques, at the rapid Indian dog-trot, stole swiftly toward the -settlement, he observed to himself that the villagers would have scant -need of their tallow dips that night. In huddled groups—the women and -children wailing, the men almost equally demoralized—the unfortunate -Acadians watched the destruction of their homes; not only so, but what -was worse to the many devout among them, the same devouring flames -consuming their church. And the moving spirit of this tragic scene was -their own _abbé_—he whom they had revered and wholly feared. - -The imposing figure of Le Loutre stood out in bold relief against the -blazing edifice. Crucifix held aloft, he incited his Micmacs, genuine -and spurious alike, to the dreadful deed. - -Jean Jacques mingled unremarked with his tribe. - -“It is for the good of your souls, my people!” thundered the enthusiast. -“You refused to obey the gentle voice of the true church and follow -where she leads. Now your salvation must be wrought for you; to live at -ease under the protection of heretics will bring damnation on your -souls.” - -“Charlot, what does the priest to the palefaces?” - -At the sound of his own name the Acadian, disguised in paint and -feathers, started violently, but peering into the face of Jean Jacques -his fears were quieted. - -“’Tis for the good of their souls,” he repeated, as a sullen boy -reciting a lesson. - -Seizing him by the arm, the Micmac drew him out of the throng. A brief -colloquy ensued, punctuated by Jean Jacques with grunts of disapproval; -then, releasing the Acadian, he made his way unheeded in the commotion -toward a small hut, as yet beyond the reach of the flames. Pushing open -the door, he entered. - -Upon a couch of moss in a corner lay an old man, evidently dying. Beside -him knelt a priest performing the last sacred offices of the Catholic -Church, and a young girl, the tears upon her pale, worn cheeks. At a -glance the Indian perceived that he had found those he sought—Pierre -Grétin, Margot, and the good priest of Cobequid, M. Girard. Had the -priest not been too much absorbed in his solemn duty to notice the -newcomer, the significant fact that the so-called ‘convert’ failed to -cross himself would not have passed unobserved. Jean Jacques kneeled -down, however, reverently enough. - -All that night the circle of fire slowly widened, spreading ever more -slowly because the clouds broke in heavy showers; but at length, soon -after the poor old man had breathed his last and the bright dawn was -illuminating the clearing sky, Jean Jacques saw that another place of -refuge must be sought from the fire. Gathering up the few articles the -miserable hut contained, he sped with them to the shelter of the near-by -woods, and then returning he wrapped, with characteristic taciturnity, -the body of the _gran’-père_ in the blanket and, followed by the priest -and the weeping Margot, bore it also away. - -“For the sainted _gran’-père_ there is no consecrated ground!” moaned -the girl, casting a backward glance at the smouldering ruins of the -church. - -“Weep not for that, my daughter,” said the priest in soothing tones, as -he led her forward, “for the faithful servant holy ground shall be -found.” - -He drew from beneath his robe a tiny vial of holy water and in due form -consecrated the spot of earth in the forest in which the _gran’-père_ -was to rest. Then seizing one of the two mattocks brought from the hut, -he set to work with the Indian. - -Few, indeed, were the tools or other possessions Pierre Grétin had -contrived to save in their compulsory flight from the pleasant home in -the Annapolis Valley—a flight which had taken place shortly after -Gabriel’s departure. Even then they might have held on longer had not an -ancient grudge on the part of a neighbor served to keep their obstinacy -ever before the eyes of Le Loutre; for it has been said that the -Acadians were a people given to petty squabbles. At Beaubassin they had -found refuge with many others of their race, but on English ground, and -it was on this account that the bigoted priest sought to remove them. -Long had the Acadians tacitly resisted, not out of love for the English, -but out of love for the peace so dear to their sluggish natures and -which they were permitted to enjoy under British rule, so long, at -least, as they refrained from meddling or from bearing arms. - -“No coffin, _mon père_?” said Margot timidly at last. - -For answer the priest stuck his spade into the ground; the work was -done. Then he pointed to a white sail upon the waters of Chignecto Bay. - -“The English!” she murmured awestruck; and then again, “And no coffin, -_M. le Curé_?” - -“The English are heretics, my daughter, but they do not desecrate -graves. The body of God’s servant will be as safe here as in his loved -Annapolis.” - -Then Jean Jacques and M. Girard laid the body in the grave, and as the -priest took out his breviary and began to read the first words of the -office for the dead, the Micmac slipped away to the hut, thence to -remove the scanty remains of Margot’s possessions. The short service -over, Margot herself helped M. Girard in the filling of the grave. - -But even as they worked the mingled sounds of lamentation and exultation -drew nearer, and just as the grave was filled, the imperious figure of -Le Loutre, his face alight with religious fervor, stood beside it. - -“What doest thou here, brother?” he said sternly. - -“What thou seest, _M. l’Abbé_. I lay in consecrated earth the remains of -this our brother in the faith.” - -“In consecrated earth,” cried Le Loutre. “What earth is consecrated trod -by the feet of heretics? M. Girard, I exhort thee, in the name of the -holy mother of God, to remove to uncontaminated soil the body of this -servant of the true church.” - -He pointed as he spoke to the crowd of hurrying fugitives pressing -across the water in boats and on rafts. - -M. Girard faced his superior calmly. Well he knew that when, for the -sake of his flock as also for the sake of right, he had taken that oath -at Halifax, he had incurred the suspicion, nay anger, of his clerical -superiors; but in the mild eyes which he raised to the fierce ones of -the _abbé_ there was no fear—only the firmness which has led many as -gentle a martyr to the stake. - -“_M. l’Abbé_ knows,” he said quietly, “that the ground consecrated by a -priest of the church becomes holy ground, and that to disturb the dead -laid therein is profanation.” - -It seemed a long time to the anxious Margot before the silent duel was -decided, for some moments elapsed ere either spoke again. Then the hand -of Le Loutre slowly fell, and he averted his eyes. Not even his -arrogance could forswear the tenets of the church for which he fought so -zealously. - -“But this maiden?” - -He spoke with forced indifference. - -“She would go under my protection to Cobequid.” - -“That shall never be!” exclaimed Le Loutre violently. “Is not one of the -most rebellious of my flock her near kinsman, and shall that dangerous -and seditious youth have access to her? If thou dost desire so great a -wrong, _M. le Curé_——” - -But before M. Girard could reply Margot was on her knees. - -“_M. l’Abbé_,” she cried, “only tell me that Gabriel—_mon cousin_—is -alive and well, and I will ask nothing further.” - -Le Loutre looked down upon the girl in silence, a contemptuous pity in -every line of his strongly marked features. - -“If he is alive? that I cannot tell thee, maiden. One last chance have I -given the would-be renegade lest he become ere his time an outcast. How -he hath borne himself, I as yet know not.” - -But M. Girard laid his hand kindly on the bowed dark head. - -“My daughter, it is the wish of _M. l’Abbé_ that thou shouldst seek the -French shore. Louis Herbes, thy neighbor, crosses even now with his -wife; it would be well for thee to go with these kind friends.” - -“And may I not pray one little hour beside the grave of him who was all -of father and mother I ever knew?” said Margot in stifled tones. - -Le Loutre shrugged his shoulders; then crossed himself piously. - -“As thou wilt, daughter. One little quarter of an hour will I give -thee.” - -He linked his arm in that of the curé and walked away with him. - -Scarcely had the priestly pair disappeared than the bushes at Margot’s -side rustled and Jean Jacques crept into view. Seizing her wrist in his -sinewy fingers he led her toward the shore, close to which was now -anchoring the English ship. - -“The Micmac will find thee a refuge, maiden,” he said. “Follow Jean -Jacques, and all will be well.” - -But the timid Acadian girl shrank from the Indian. - -“To go among those redcoats—and alone, Jean Jacques? Oh, I cannot.” - -“Did not Jean Jacques swear to Wild Deer that he would save his -kinswoman from the cruel priest?” said the Indian with stoicism, “and -will he not do it even with the strength of his arm? Neither do the -white braves harm women.” - -“Yes—no—oh, I know not,” faltered Margot; “oh, leave me, Jean Jacques! -Yet tell me first, where is Gabriel?” - -The Indian grunted. - -“The Great Spirit knows, not I. But, maiden, while we waste words the -priest comes, and Jean Jacques is no longer of his faith; the faith of -the Micmac is the faith of the Wild Deer. Wilt thou come, or no?” - -Margot started. “Then Gabriel is in truth a heretic!” - -Whilst she hesitated, Jean Jacques, who was in no mood for delay, led -her deeper into the woods. - -Now Margot, though, as we know, possessed of that kind of courage which -will bravely choose and do the right, and even be physically brave for -those she loved, was naturally timid, and now she was worn and exhausted -and scarcely mistress of herself. Her inborn terror of Indians got the -upper hand, and she uttered a piercing shriek, promptly stifled by the -Micmac’s hand upon her mouth. Then he suddenly released her. - -“Maiden,” he said, “Jean Jacques can do no more. Thou wilt not seek -safety? So be it then. The priests come—Jean Jacques goes.” - -The girl made a great effort, and though still very pale, held out her -hand with a smile to the Indian. - -“Forgive me, Jean Jacques,” she said in tones which would have won -forgiveness anywhere; “my heart is sick, I know not what I do. Take me -whither thou wilt—whither Wild Deer wills.” - -“And it shall not be to the redcoat braves,” said the Indian, as -together they sped through the undergrowth. “Down beside the crimson -Missaguash there are homes in which thy race still dwells in peace, even -as those who remain beside the Annapolis. Thither will the Micmac take -the maiden of Wild Deer.” - -“Halt!” thundered a familiar voice. “A straying lamb, indeed—a lamb in -sore need of chastisement.” - -But for once the fierce priest had reckoned amiss. Quicker than the -lightning’s flash the hand of the Indian went to his tomahawk, his eyes -glittering balefully. With a motion almost as rapid the whistle -wherewith Le Loutre summoned his lambs was at his lips, while with his -disengaged hand he held a crucifix aloft. But that almost might have -ruled betwixt life and death had not Margot sprung forward and placed -her slight body as a shield for the priest. - -“Jean Jacques,” she cried, “is this thy new faith? to strike the -anointed of God?” - -The upraised tomahawk dropped, and the Indian grunted sullenly. But Le -Loutre, the full violence of whose fanaticism was aroused by the -‘perversion’ of one of his lambs, was not to be so easily pacified, -though life itself were at stake; and the influence of the paleface -maiden might not have availed to save him, so irritating was the -language he used toward the already enraged Micmac, had not Margot, -aghast at the prospect of beholding the _abbé_ murdered before her very -eyes, hastily promised to go with him whither he would, if so be he -would permit the Indian to depart in peace. - -“Swear upon the crucifix,” insisted Le Loutre, “that you will follow me -back to the true fold.” - -Scarcely realized by herself, the girl’s heart and sense, and perhaps -also the recollection of Gabriel’s persecution, were combining to lead -her in spirit away from that fold; and now she drew back. - -“I will take no oath, _mon père_,” she said gently, “but I promise to go -with thee now; more I cannot promise.” - -Then she turned to Jean Jacques, holding out her hand in grateful -farewell. - -[Illustration: “But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest.”] - -“Seek thine own safety,” she said hurriedly, “and if _mon cousin_ lives, -tell him——” - -Her voice broke, and she started to follow the already moving priest. - -“If Gabriel lives!” cried another voice, and in a moment she was in the -arms of its owner. - -What matter that he wore the scarlet coat of the British soldier, that -he had forsworn the faith of their common forefathers? Was he not -Gabriel still, the playmate of her childhood, and now, as she suddenly -understood, the lover of her youth? - -It was but for a moment, and then the priest tore them asunder. - -“Heretic boy!” he exclaimed, regardless of the Micmac, who once more -approached threateningly, “release this maiden, unworthy as thou art to -touch the hem of her garment.” - -But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest. He freed Margot -from his embrace indeed, but held her hand firmly in his, and flushed -and smiling gazed upon the small, downcast face bright with rapture. - -“It is with me thou comest, is it not so, _ma cousine_?” he said softly, -bending over her. - -She lifted her dark eyes, and for a long minute they rested on his, -heedless of the objurgations of Le Loutre. Then she remembered, and her -face grew suddenly so pale that its wanness struck Gabriel with a great -fear. How much, ah, how much, she had suffered. He seemed to see it all -now. - -“I have promised—I dare not break my sacred word.” - -Her voice was barely audible. - -“It is true,” cried the priest, thrusting himself so abruptly betwixt -the cousins as to compel Gabriel to drop the hand of the girl, “she has -promised to return to the true fold, and as the daughter of mother -church the touch of the heretic is defilement.” - -Gabriel lifted his fair head with the old fearless air that had ever -exasperated the priest, while winning his reluctant admiration. - -“It may be that I am no longer a boy,” he said coolly, “at least I am no -longer of your church; and by all laws human and divine, she being my -next of kin, this maiden has a right to my protection. Also, _M. -l’Abbé_, you are upon English ground.” - -He pointed to the thin line of redcoats deploying upon a low hill some -distance away. - -The face of Le Loutre was convulsed with hatred. - -“The more reason that we swiftly depart,” he said. “Come, daughter, bear -in mind thy vow.” - -Gabriel’s blue eyes flashed as Margot had so often seen them do in the -past. She pressed by the _abbé_, and taking her cousin’s outstretched -hands, said in a low, persuasive voice: - -“Gabriel, _mon ami_, it is even so. I promised to go with _M. l’Abbé_ in -order to save his life; there was no other way. But the promise was only -for the day; I would make no further vow.” - -Le Loutre watched the girl uneasily, for had she not refused to swear -upon the cross, and what was a mere promise without some appeal to -superstition? He could not comprehend the force of a higher influence -than that of mere symbolism. - -Pale now as Margot herself Gabriel moved aside with her, holding her -hands, and looking down into the pathos of those dark eyes which -possessed, even as in the days when they were children together, power -to still the tumult in his breast—the rebellion of a nature more -passionate than her own. - -“It is but for this one day, _mon_ Gabriel,” she murmured. - -“But for this one day!” he repeated. “And our force is small, and God -alone knows where we may be on the morrow. Margot, must it be?” - -“Gabriel, it was thou who didst first tell me, when thy heart began to -change toward our church, that to break the promised word was to lie, -and that to lie was deadly sin. Oh, _mon cousin_, dost thou not -remember?” - -“I do, I do!” he groaned, passing his hand over his eyes in unbearable -anguish. - -“The priest will not harm me,” she went on, “and I shall be with -friends—Louis Herbes and his good wife. They will build them a hut -close beside the water, so that if chance offer they may return to -English soil—dost hearken, Gabriel?” - -Gabriel’s face cleared. - -“Yes, yes, sweet cousin. I will take a boat—to-morrow—toward the -sunsetting—remember.” - -“It is well. But, Gabriel, go. See the lambs—they come.” - -“I fear them not,” he cried, the warrior spirit awake in an instant; -“let them come. Have I not baffled them already many times? I would bear -thee through a host of them, my Margot.” - -“Go, I beseech thee!” she implored, a prayer in her eyes. - -“God keep thee in his holy keeping then, until we meet again,” and -seizing her in his arms he pressed his lips to her brow, and was gone, -followed by Jean Jacques. - - - CHAPTER V - -In that hurried meeting and parting Margot had been unable to learn from -Gabriel the history of his life since they had looked upon one another -last. Of his conversion to the Protestant faith she already knew, and of -his sojourn in the fort of Halifax, but of the rest nothing. Most of -all, nothing of his miraculous escape from the treacherous Micmacs -during the voyage from Halifax. Le Loutre, too well acquainted with his -lambs to repose trust in them, and writhing under the knowledge that he -could not bend the white boy to his will, had made use of a well-known -half-breed spy to keep him informed of the doings at the fort. This man -was instructed, should the murderous plot fail or the Micmacs be once -more won over to the English, to offer the savages yet higher bribes, so -that they should at the last moment turn again to France. These higher -bribes of course prevailed, and reinforced by members of their own -tribe, who boarded the vessel under cover of the darkness, the English -crew was overpowered, and all, with one exception, massacred. The -exception, needless to say, was Gabriel. When the priest heard of the -boy’s escape he scarce knew whether to mourn or to rejoice; for, until -he had seen him actually in English uniform, he had still hoped to win -over this choice spirit to his service. - -Gabriel, being an expert swimmer, had contrived to make his way to the -shore, and from thence by a toilsome route to the fort. Arrived there, -all hesitation was at an end. Once and forever he threw in his lot with -his father’s race; and chiefly in the hope of rescuing the _gran’-père_ -and Margot, but also because his natural bent was to a soldier’s career, -he offered his services to the government. Cornwallis accepted them -gladly, placing him advantageously from the first, and recommending him -strongly to his successor, to make way for whom he shortly after crossed -the ocean. Cornwallis carried with him at best a heavy heart, but it was -in some degree lightened by the gratitude of the many to whom he had -shown kindness. - -It is doubtful whether the French government invariably approved of the -lengths to which the zeal of Le Loutre carried him. At all events, the -home ministers occasionally found it advisable to shut their eyes to his -method of interpreting their instructions; which were, in brief, to keep -Acadie at any price, or rather to keep their share of the unhappy -country and take all the rest that was not theirs. - -When Jean Jacques told Gabriel of the _gran’-père’s_ death, and of the -privations he and the girl had endured, even the new hope for Margot -could not keep back the tears. For Gabriel had loved and revered the -good old man; therefore he wept and was not ashamed. But doubly -necessary was it now to carry Margot away, though where to bestow her in -the English camp he hardly knew—only he felt sure that a way would be -opened. Major Lawrence was acquainted with his story and would certainly -aid him. Moreover, the smallness of the force caused him to believe that -their stay on the Missaguash would be brief, and once at Halifax, Margot -would find refuge with her country-people assembled there. Perhaps there -too, she might learn to love his faith and be turned wholly from the -Romish Church, and then perhaps—perhaps—who could say? - -But Gabriel’s daydreams were rudely dispelled, and the struggle betwixt -love and duty was not yet at an end. - -The very next day, when he, with the aid of the faithful Micmac, was -about to carry out his carefully laid scheme, Major Lawrence, having -satisfied himself that his force was too small for the work it would -have to accomplish, gave orders for immediate re-embarkation. - -“The fortunes of war, my lad,” he said, with a shrug, and gave the -matter no further thought; for Lawrence was made of very different stuff -from Cornwallis, as the Acadians were to discover when he became -governor of the province soon after. Not by nature a patient man, such -patience as he had acquired soon vanished when appointed to direct a -people who, it must be confessed, were not without trying -characteristics. Already he marveled at the leniency of Cornwallis. To -plead with Lawrence for a few hours grace, therefore, Gabriel knew to be -unavailing; probably it would have been so with Cornwallis also, for -after all “discipline must be maintained.” But at least the governor -would have shown some sympathy. There came a moment when the young -soldier was inclined to rebel, then duty triumphed, and he had learned -his hardest lesson in self-restraint, which if a man fails to learn he -becomes little better than a castaway. So duty and honor prevailed, and -Gabriel confided his cousin to the care of Jean Jacques for as long a -time as the Protestant convert dared to remain in that dangerous -neighborhood; thereafter, if possible, the Indian was to convey the girl -to the fort at Halifax, where were gathered many of her countrymen. -Nevertheless, Gabriel leaned with straining eyes and an almost breaking -heart over the bulwarks of the vessel that bore him rapidly away from -all he loved best on earth, his only consolation being that he was -keeping faith and doing his duty, and that the God of love and faith -would not forsake either him or Margot. - -And, indeed, he was to be yet further tried. Upon his arrival at Halifax -he found great changes. Cornwallis had departed, and his place was -already taken by Hopson, his immediate successor. In the excitement of -new arrangements, heightened by the information that the French were -invading the colonies, the recruit was suddenly plunged into another -existence. By the special recommendation of the late governor he was -attached to a lately arrived regiment marching south, and thereupon his -boyhood’s dreams of escaping from the dull Acadian round, and of making -himself of some account in the world, began to show signs of future -fulfillment. Courage, fidelity, and intelligence, were virtues then as -now sure to make their mark. The day came when the young soldier served -under Washington himself, sharing with him the failure that made the -fourth of July, 1754, the darkest day, perhaps, of his whole eventful -life. But Gabriel’s relations with the Father of his country belong to a -part of his career with which Acadie had nothing to do, and which -therefore does not belong to this story. For him the long separation was -in truth less hard than for the girl. He at least could drown the -torturing sense of powerlessness to aid her in constant activity, and in -a succession of duties and dangers; and the hours of his saddest thought -were often interrupted by some stirring call to arms. - -Far other was poor Margot’s lot. Hers was that of endurance—the hardest -of all. - -The day of her parting from Gabriel went heavily by; and when in the -waning afternoon she crouched in the long marsh grass while the tide -fell lower and lower and still no craft appeared upon the waters, she -wrung her hands in helpless anguish, knowing that in two short hours -neither boat nor canoe could pass up or down the river; for of the -Missaguash nothing would remain but deep red mud. Yet Gabriel came not, -and the precious minutes flew. - -The Herbes and herself, pressing far into the woods in the hope of -returning ere long to peaceful English soil, had missed the weighing of -the anchor at early dawn and the skimming seaward of the white-winged -ship bearing Margot’s fondest hope with it. So the girl crouched in the -grass and waited, while the wife of Louis built a fire upon the firmer -land and cooked from their scanty store of provisions. - -Then at last, breasting the falling tide, a canoe came creeping up the -Missaguash; and though it came not down, as it should have done from the -English camp, Margot rose to her feet, and shading her eyes from the -westering sun, watched it with beating heart and a prayer on her lips. -Nearer and nearer—but that was no bright head bending over the paddle, -but a dark and swarthy one—the head of an Indian; and it was Jean -Jacques who presently grounded his little vessel, and slipped through -the long grass toward Margot, who was waiting sick at heart. The Micmac -spoke first. - -“Maiden,” he said, “Wild Deer has sailed toward the setting of the sun. -The braves of his nation commanded and it was for Wild Deer to obey. But -the Micmac has found for thee a shelter until the youth comes again. Let -us go quickly, ere the river too follow the sun.” - -Bitter indeed was the disappointment, but Margot faced it bravely. After -all, though their fashion of faith was no longer the same, were not she -and Gabriel both in the hands of the one God? - -“I will go with thee, Jean Jacques,” she said, after a moment’s struggle -with her grief; “but Louis and Marie, they too desire to go. Whither do -we follow thee?” - -The Indian pointed down the Missaguash, where upon the opposite shore, -removed from the burned settlement some two or three miles and concealed -from it by a bend in the river, pleasant farmhouses and cultivated acres -brooded in the hush of evening. - -“And those good people will receive me?” - -The Indian nodded. - -“And I can work,” she added eagerly. “I can work well, Jean Jacques.” - -It was true. The slender, dark-eyed maiden, though of a frailer build -than the majority of Acadian women, possessed the ambition they so often -lacked. - -“Come, then,” urged Jean Jacques. “The white man and his squaw they must -wait. The waters of the Missaguash droop in their bed.” - -“Wilt thou come for the white man and his wife at the rising of the -tide?” - -The Indian grunted in acquiescence. - -“And thou, Jean Jacques, whither wilt thou go?” - -He pointed southward. - -“Ah, to the new fort! There thou wilt be safe.” - -“And thither am I to bear thee, maiden, when the trail is safe for -thee.” - -“It is well. And now, wait but the flashing of an arrow,” cried the -girl, and was gone. - -Then, as Jean Jacques squatted in the marsh grass, there was borne to -him a sound which caused him to fall prone upon his stomach and crawl as -the snake crawls toward the woods. For the sound was the cry of the -paleface maiden, and had not Wild Deer delivered her into the faithful -keeping of the Micmac? - -Now it was not sweet to the heart of Jean Jacques to turn his hand -against those of his own tribe, well as he knew that the lambs of Le -Loutre, with whom he had before his conversion, slain and pillaged many -a time, were in disposition rather birds of prey than lambs. - -On the edge of the marsh he paused, lifting his head and gazing. To see -was to act. With the swift and silent motion of the true Indian the -arrow was on the string, and in a moment more buried in the heart of the -feathered brave with whom Margot was struggling. In the background knelt -a woman, clasping a crucifix to her bosom; beside her the prostrate form -of a white man—Louis Herbes and Marie, his wife. - -As Jean Jacques sprang forward Marie screamed again, whilst Margot -uttered a cry of joy. - -“Jean Jacques! It is our good Jean Jacques! Hasten, Marie! We will lift -Louis, and bear him to the river. He is but wounded, he is not dead.” - -With the taciturnity of his race at a crisis Jean Jacques spoke not. -Wiser than Margot, he knew that the Micmacs never hunted singly, and -that if their coveted prey reached the river in safety—well, the -attempt could at least be made. As for the wounded man, he also knew -that, though enjoined by Le Loutre to do the Acadians no injury, the -lambs constantly employed means more in keeping with their savage -natures than persuasion. - -Motioning to the women to take the feet of Louis, who was unconscious, -he raised him by the shoulders, and the small party began a hurried -retreat through the marsh grass. Instinctively they all stooped as they -walked, and well it was for them that they did so, for more than one -arrow whistled over their heads. - -“The brave is now alone,” grunted Jean Jacques in tones of satisfaction. -“Alone he fears Jean Jacques.” - -Margot, panting and breathless, made no reply, but she rejoiced, knowing -that the Indian spoke truth. So doughty a warrior as he would not be -attacked single-handed. - -The canoe was already stranded by the falling tide, and the red mud was -over ankle deep. Plunging into it, Jean Jacques, ably assisted by the -strong, thick-set Acadian Marie, laid Louis in the canoe, and all three -proceeded to push it toward the sluggish, ever-narrowing river. - -“God and the Holy Mother be praised,” ejaculated Marie, as impelled by -the paddle of the Indian the little vessel glided at last down the -stream. - -The words had scarcely left her lips when the air at her ear was cut by -an arrow, which swept on to bury itself in the back of Jean Jacques. - -The women uttered an exclamation of dismay, but the Indian, though his -swarthy face went ashen gray, said not a word; only when Marie would -have extricated the arrow, muttered, “Touch it not.” - -Fortunately there was a spare paddle in the canoe, and both women in -turn put their whole strength into the work, so that aided by the tide -they made rapid progress. And well that so it was, for as the canoe bore -up against a green promontory, upon which houses and groups of people -were visible, Jean Jacques fell forward on his face, the life-blood -gushing from his nose and mouth. Willing arms lifted him and laid him -upon the green turf, for the habitans had for some time been anxiously -watching the approaching canoe, and were ready with their aid. But -Margot’s first and only thought was for the faithful Micmac. Carefully -as the arrow was withdrawn, the shock was too great; and as the girl -bent weeping over him, it was but glazing eyes he raised to hers. - -“Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer.” - -Then he fell back upon her arm and spoke no more. - -Faithful unto death, indeed, was this poor Indian. And, heretic though -he was, they laid him in consecrated earth, blessed by one of the -priests who, French assertions to the contrary notwithstanding, were -always permitted to minister to their flocks upon English soil, unless -detected in acts of treachery. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: “‘Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer.’”] - -So for a time poor, little, hunted Margot found peace and a refuge with -her country people, but only for a time. When in a few months news of -Lawrence’s return with a larger force reached the ears of Le Loutre he -sent forth his Micmacs to destroy the cluster of homes yet remaining on -the English side of the water. The Acadians, caring not much for -fighting any one, refused to obey his mandate and take arms against the -redcoats, so fled in helpless terror, some to Halifax and Annapolis, but -the larger number across the Missaguash. Whether Le Loutre honestly -desired to found a settlement in this locality, or merely desired to -vent his hatred for the English, cannot be rightly known; at all events -his calculations were at fault regarding a new settlement. The French -shore was already crowded, and if he really entertained hopes of filling -up the marsh and turning it into fertile land for the benefit of the -refugees, these hopes were defeated by the corrupt practices of his own -government, which cared not at all for the welfare of the unhappy -Acadians, but used them merely as tools. Half clothed and half starved, -the men were at once put to hard, labor, with scanty or no remuneration. -The strong new fort of Beauséjour, built in opposition to the less -imposing one of Fort St. Lawrence, was the handiwork of Acadian -refugees. Even then they might not have fared so ill had the supplies -actually sent by the French government ever reached their rightful -destination, but this was far from being the case. Official corruption, -bad as it was throughout New France, was worse, probably, at Beauséjour -than elsewhere. One of the most incompetent and unworthy of the numerous -“office seekers,” to use a modern term, was in command there, and the -“spoils system” was at its height upon the shores of the Missaguash. -Vergor, the commandant, applied but a small portion of the food and -clothing to the uses for which they were intended, and sent the large -remainder back to Quebec, or to Louisbourg, where his confederates sold -them, greatly to his and their profit, but not at all to that of the -poor Acadians. - -Terrified at Le Loutre, Vergor, the Micmacs, and French soldiers, not -naturally loving the foreign race across the water, yet craving peaceful -homes with them, the refugees dragged on a miserable existence, finding -themselves becoming daily more of a burden to their countrymen in the -settlements about Chipody. At length they resolved to inquire secretly -of the English whether they would be allowed to return to their homes, -could they make their escape? The answer was that they could return if -they renewed the oath of fealty to the English crown, the oath they had -so often broken in their weakness and vacillation. They would not be -required by English law to bear arms, but if on the contrary they were -found fighting for, or aiding the French, they would be dealt with as -traitors. Among those who joined in this request were Margot’s -guardians, the Herbes, also the family with whom the fugitives had found -shelter on the south bank of the Missaguash close to the Pont-à-Buot. - -Furious, indeed, was the anger of the _abbé_ when he heard of the -backsliding of his people. His ravings were rather those of a lunatic -than of an anointed priest, as he flung himself hither and thither in -the pulpit, calling down the wrath of God upon his recreant flock. And -Le Loutre was a man who never stopped at mere words. So one night two -things happened; one, however, which had nothing to do with him. - -The people for whom Margot worked in return for bare sustenance were not -unkind, but they found Louis and Marie of more service to them, being -stronger and stouter, and little Margot, in losing heart and hope, was -losing physical strength too. That night, as she crossed the meadows -behind the home-going cows, she was very sad. Slowly, very slowly, her -faith in the church of her fathers was being dragged up by the roots, -and the fury of the _abbé_, his cruel words in the sacred building a few -hours since, had uprooted it yet more. Yet she had no other spiritual -guide but him—none to direct her in new, untrodden ways. Gabriel, who -could have helped her, was far away. M. Girard she had not seen since -the burning of Beaubassin, and she feared that the good old man was in -trouble. It was working and waiting in the dark for Margot. - -As she neared the marsh a sound struck on her ear. - -“Tst!” - -She glanced around fearfully, and her eyes fell on the head of an -Indian, stealthily upreared. - -Terror of the Micmacs amounted to an inborn instinct among the Acadians, -and common sense alone intervened to stay Margot’s flying feet. Perhaps -the man had some message for her, a message from him who was ever in her -thoughts. She paused, therefore, with as fair a show of courage as she -could muster. - -“Be not afraid, maiden,” said the Indian in broken French. “Come nearer. -Bent Bow carries a message for thee from one whom Jean Jacques called -‘Wild Deer.’” - -Margot’s eyes brightened, and oblivious of fear she approached the -Indian, who she now perceived was no Micmac. He held toward her a little -billet which she eagerly took. Now the good _curé_ at Annapolis, at -Gabriel’s earnest entreaty, had taught the cousins to read and write, -and never was Margot more thankful than at this moment for the blessed -privilege, though she had often times found the lesson hour a toilsome -one. - -“Ah!” she cried. “I have nothing to give thee, Bent Bow, to reward thy -faithfulness. The poor Acadians have not so much as a handful of beads.” - -“It is enough that I bring thee the billet,” replied the Indian, “and -that I serve Wild Deer. Together, many moons from here, we drove before -us the foreign devils, and there came a night on which the paleface -youth saved the life of the Indian brave.” - -“Wilt thou see him again?” cried the girl eagerly. - -Bent Bow shook his head, and with a sign of farewell began to crawl away -through the marsh grass. - -“Is it well with Wild Deer?” she called after him. - -“It is well.” And she saw the messenger no more. Still walking behind -the cows, she read the precious letter: - - MA COUSINE: Would that I knew it was as well with thee as it is - with me. But, alas! this I cannot know. Yet Jean Jacques is - faithful, and he has vowed to care for my pearl of price. Long - ere this he will have told thee why I failed to meet thee. - Margot, I have for leader one of the noblest young men God ever - created. It was a happy day for me when, through my father’s - name, I was appointed to serve under such an one. Sad it is that - a soldier’s life takes me far from thee, but I shall come again, - sweet cousin, to find thee safe and sheltered beside the - Missaguash, far from the cruel priest. The family to whom Jean - Jacques was to carry thee are known by me, and will protect and - cherish thee. - -“Ah, Gabriel,” said Margot to herself, the tears upon her cheeks, “well -is it that so much is hid from thee.” - - For I am coming back. Little is said, but Washington himself - thinks that some great move is to be made, and that the men of - New England are gathering, and that the governor of - Massachusetts and the governor of our poor distraught country - are planning alike against the French. Then I and others who - came southward with me will return. Till then, _ma cherie, mon - amie_, adieu. In English, though I have grown to like my - father’s tongue, methinks these words are not so sweet. - - GABRIEL. - -And all the way along the meadows her heart sang, “He is coming back.” - -But at home a scene of confusion and distress awaited her. - -Le Loutre, not content with thunders from the pulpit, had been making a -house to house visitation of those whom he considered the most -rebellious members his flock. Among these were classed Louis Herbes and -his host, François Marin. Banishment to Isle St. Jean, where many exiled -Acadians were already in a fair way to starve, was the priest’s usual -punishment; and should any man refuse to obey, refusal was met by a -threat to permit the Micmacs to carry off, and possibly kill, his wife -and children. A yet worse fate than banishment awaited Herbes and Marin. - -That morning in the church Le Loutre had assured the signers of the two -documents of appeal—to the French and to the English governments—that -if they did not take their names from both papers they should “have -neither sacraments in this life nor heaven in the next.” What could the -poor, hunted Acadians do but obey? And even with obedience came -banishment for many. As for Herbes and Marin, they were given the -grievous permission to proceed to Quebec as deputies on behalf of the -Acadians who desired to return to the English side of the river. -Grievous permission, indeed! For even slow-witted Acadians were bright -enough to understand that the _abbé_ would prepare the way before them -in such a manner as to make their mission not only useless, but -terrifying. And truly they were correct in their anticipations, for -after the visit Duquesne, the governor, wrote Le Loutre as follows: - -“I think that the two rascals of deputies whom you sent me will not soon -recover from the fright I gave them.” - -Such was the heartlessness with which this unhappy race was treated. - - - CHAPTER VI - -The last sad scenes in the sad story of the Acadians in Acadie are now -drawing near. Possibly had those two patient gentlemen, Cornwallis and -Hopson, continued in command of the country, such scenes might never -have come to pass, or at least might have been long delayed. But, as we -know, Governor Lawrence was soon worn out by what he described as “the -obstinacy, treachery, and ingratitude” of the Acadians, and he and -Shirley, the governor of Massachusetts, determined to settle this -troublesome affair once and for all. The two governors knew, moreover, -that the French were merely waiting for a good excuse to attack the -English, whose defenses in Acadie were of the feeblest, and that if they -hoped to be successful they themselves must strike the first blow. - -The result of their decision was an act which has been well described as -being “too harsh and indiscriminate to be wholly justified,” but which -is explained by the fact that the Acadians “while calling themselves -neutrals, were an enemy encamped in the heart of the province.”[1] - ------ - -[1] “Montcalm and Wolfe.” Francis Parkman. - -The first step was to lay siege to Beauséjour; and to the aid of the -regulars flocked volunteers under the command of that warlike farmer, -John Winslow. These men enrolled themselves under the orders of General -Monckton, having responded to the call of the New England governor. - -It was the afternoon of a June day when the two deputies wearied, cowed, -and helpless returned home. Their passage through the settlements had -been greatly delayed by the questions showered upon them by anxious -habitans, and it was late ere they arrived. Then again the tale of -failure had to be told, and listened to with tears and lamentations. - -“If the Acadians are miserable, remember that the priests are the cause -of it,” wrote a French officer to a French missionary. - -News had quite recently come to Chipody, the adjacent settlement, that -many of the Acadians banished by Le Loutre to Isle St. Jean had found -their way to Halifax, had taken the oath of allegiance to the British, -were reinstated in their former homes, and were being provided -temporarily with supplies by the English government. Yet it was not love -for the English that had drawn them back again—simply the love of home -and peace. The returned deputies had scarcely finished their tale when -the women began to try and persuade them to remove to Halifax, -immediately if possible. - -Margot alone neither wept nor argued. There was a hope within her breast -that would not die, a hope aroused by Gabriel’s letter. She stole away -from the clatter of tongues down to the edge of the marsh-grass. The sun -was near its setting, as it had been when she had waited in vain for -Gabriel so long, so very long, as it seemed to her, ago. Where was he -now? When would he—— Then suddenly her heart stood still, to beat -again with mingled dread and expectation. - -[Illustration: “Far away, at the mouth of the inlet . . . lay three small - ships.”] - -Far away, at the mouth of the inlet, where it broadens into Chignecto -Bay, lay three small ships, English beyond a doubt. - -For a minute Margot lingered, giving herself up to speculation. Then -like a bird she flew back to one of the rude and simple dwellings of the -kind which even in happier days fulfilled the frugal Acadian’s highest -idea of home. Flinging open the door without ceremony she cried, -“English ships in the bay!” and sped upon her homeward course. - -Herbes and Marin and their wives were still planning and discussing, but -the words on their lips were checked by Margot’s breathless ejaculation. -In silence they gazed at one another, with the characteristic slowness -of their race. What was now to be done? - -Margot, whose mind moved more swiftly than those of most of her -country-people, soon spoke again, with as much impatience as the habit -of respect for her elders permitted. - -“What shall we do, you say? Oh, good friends, let us escape to the -English ships, they will help us to Halifax! But oh, quick, quick!” - -“You forget, maiden,” said Marin with pompous rebuke. “There is the oath -of allegiance in the way.” - -“And what of that?” cried all three women this time. Marie Herbes -continuing: - -“What hurt did the oath do us in the past? Did we not till our own land -and gather in our crops unaffrighted and undisturbed?—untaxed too? Did -not our own priests minister to us?” - -A crafty gleam crept into the little eyes of Marin. - -“Yes,” he said, “and if we broke faith with our rulers for our good or -advancement, why—pfui! What matter!” He shrugged his shoulders and -spread his hands. “A small matter! Let the habitan take the oath anew, -said the governor. But now—now it is otherwise. As we came through the -settlement the new proclamation was made known to us. Should the -French—and verily are they not of our own blood? make fair offers, -such, for instance, that under their rule too, we should live in peace, -and it became the duty of a good habitan to give ear to them, what then? -Then would we be called traitors, and meet the fate of such!” - -Marie lifted her eyebrows, and made a little sound of dissension in her -throat. - -“It is true,” he persisted doggedly. - -“The good friend is in the right,” put in Herbes, speaking for the first -time. “This Governor Lawrence is not as the others, he is not to be -cajoled.” - -“But why should we break faith with the English?” It was Margot who -spoke in a low voice. “With the Acadians the French have never yet kept -faith.” - -“What knows a young maid of great affairs such as these?” growled Marin; -while his wife added with a taunting laugh: - -“But thou must remember, _mon ami_, that the child has an English lover; -what wouldst thou, then?” - -The color dyed Margot’s cheek, then fled, leaving her very pale. But she -was, as we know, no moral coward, so she quickly controlled herself, and -replied quietly: - -“Pardon, madame, thou hast forgotten that my cousin’s mother was an -Acadian, even as we are, and that he himself was my cousin ere he was my -lover. The country of his birth is dear to him, though whether he be yet -alive I know not, or whether I shall ever see him more.” - -Her voice choked, and her dark eyes filled. The good Marie clapped her -briskly on the shoulder crying vehemently: - -“Be of a better courage, _mon enfant_! Thou and thy heretic will meet -again, never fear!” - -“Sometimes it misgives me that our Margot is already part heretic -herself,” said Louis with a suspicious glare. - -“Shame on thee, shame on thee!” protested his wife. “And hast thou so -soon forgotten to be grateful? Could the maiden not have left us that -day on the banks of the Missaguash—you a mere helpless burden hindering -her flight?” Then, while Louis hung his head in abashed silence, she -hastily brought the conversation back to its former subject. It was -finally decided that the whole party should proceed to the house of the -neighbor whom Margot had warned of the arrival of the ships, there to -discuss the advisability of further action. Thus slowly did the minds of -Acadians work. The result was that the commandant at the fort received -no notice of the enemy’s approach until the small hours of the morning. -The attacking force was then at the very doors, and all was confusion -and alarm. Messengers were sent in hot haste to Louisbourg for aid, and -by alternate threats and promises the poor Acadians, who so much -preferred to have their fighting done for them, were forced either to -assist in the defense of the fort, or worse still, oppose the enemy in -the open. - -It was a case of English regulars and provincials against French -regulars and Acadians—on the one side the whole heart, on the other but -half a heart; for the French soldiers corrupted by corrupt officials, -were no match either in resolution for the stout New Englanders, or in -discipline for the British troops. The Acadians and Indians sent out of -the fort were as mere puppets in the path of Monckton’s army, and the -second night beheld the invaders safely across the river and encamped -within a mile of Beauséjour. - -Herbes and Marin had of course been pressed into the service, but unlike -their neighbors had decided to leave their families in the farmhouse -instead of hiding them in the woods. The crafty Marin declared that the -home was far enough from the scene of the conflict to insure safety, but -in truth he depended far more upon the almost certain hope that Margot’s -English lover would take care that she, therefore they, would not be -molested. By this it may be seen how vague were his notions concerning -army regulations, discipline, and so forth. Depending on this hope, -however, the women and the two half-grown sons of Marin were left -behind, to listen to the distant roar and rattle of the bombardment of -Beauséjour,—for the attack was not long in beginning. The wives told -their beads, weeping and praying for the safety of their husbands, while -Margot, pale and still, and alternating betwixt hope and fear, turned -now consciously in her petitions to the faith of him whom she loved. For -Margot’s nature like that of Gabriel, was clear and straightforward; and -now that the forms of the Catholic religion were getting to mean little -to her, she faced the knowledge bravely, dropping these forms one by -one, striving to wait patiently until light and help should come; and -this lonely waiting amounted to heroism in a timid Acadian maid. But the -length of the loneliness, the yearning for counsel and support, was -forming the girl’s character, and ripening it as the seed ripens within -the pod. It was Margot, the woman, who now awaited the return of -Gabriel, and such a woman as she might never have become had she led the -effortless, unaspiring existence of the average Acadian peasant, without -mental struggle or any higher object than that of living from day to -day. - -News of the siege came but fitfully to the three women, bereft as they -were of neighbors and the usual neighborly gossip; for the inhabitants -of the scattered houses, or rather huts, within reach had all fled to -the shelter of the woods. Now and then some head of a family, wearied of -what seemed to him profitless combat, having succeeded in eluding the -unwelcome task, paused at the farmhouse to drink a cup of milk on his -way to rejoin wife and babes, and shake his head over the news he -brought; or a fugitive Indian, prowling along the river’s bank, bade the -paleface squaws make ready for flight, declaring that the great -medicine-man could not much longer induce the braves to hold the fort -against the foe. But secure in their simple faith that Marin would -contrive to see Gabriel, and that Gabriel would protect them, the women -refused to face the perils of the forest. - -The day was the sixteenth of June. For several days they had heard -nothing, and growing hourly more anxious, the three would once and again -drop their household tasks, and stepping one by one to the door, call to -the boys perched upon the tall trees to know if aught might be seen or -heard. When at last a shout went up, it chanced that all the women were -in the house. As they ran out into the open, young François cried: - -“They come, they come! a host of them!” - -“Who come?” inquired his mother impatiently. “Speak, boy!” - -“I cannot yet tell, _ma mère_; but yes, yes!” - -And little Jules took up the cry: - -“Yes, yes! It is our own dear Acadians. And they laugh, they are glad, -they carry bundles and shout!” - -“And see the _bon père_, Jules; he waves his cap, he espies us!” - -And sliding down the tree, François was off and away, deaf to his -mother’s calls and commands, followed as promptly as the shortness of -his legs would permit by his little brother. - -What did it all mean? The three women left behind looked into one -another’s eyes, with the unspoken query on their lips. Then, with an air -of determination, the wife of Marin threw her homespun apron over her -head and went after her sons. Marie Herbes dropped upon the rude bench -before the door, and began rapidly telling her beads, tapping her foot -upon the ground meanwhile in an agony of impatience and anxiety. - -And Margot? For the lonely girl how much was now at stake! Leaning -against the wall of the house, her hands idle for the reason that she no -longer owned beads to tell, her dark lashes resting on her pale cheeks, -and a prayer in her heart for resignation if the worst was to be, she -waited. - -Then it was that for the first time she fully understood that she was -ever hoping and praying for the success of the alien race; that she had -ceased merely to tolerate them for the sake of the peace they gave, but -that she had in very truth gone over,—as a few others of her race had -done, and were doing,—heart and soul to the enemy. - -Undoubtedly the siege of Beauséjour was at an end; the question -trembling on the lips of the waiting women was, In whose hands was the -victory? For peaceful Acadians, released from the perils and toils of -war, would for the moment rejoice in either victory or defeat; both -would sound alike to them. - -Without, the sun burned more and more hotly. Within, the soup in the -iron pot, hung above the crackling sticks, boiled—presently boiled -over. None heeded. - -Half an hour dragged by, the minutes ticking slowly along in the old -clock in the corner. Then Marie sprang to her feet. - -“They come!” she cried. - -Verily they came—a strange spectacle. Out of the woods and across the -bridge poured a little horde of Acadians—all Acadians, Margot saw in -one swift glance, many of them excited by the red French wine, but every -man of them singing and shouting, as they tramped along laden with what -was evidently plunder from the fort. - -“Beauséjour has fallen—has fallen!” - -Thus they sang, as if exulting in the defeat of an enemy. - -The wife of Marin, almost as wild as the men, had loaded herself down -with part of her husband’s burden, and her voice rang shrill above the -tumult in response to Marie’s vociferous queries: - -“Beauséjour has fallen, I tell thee. And the English have pardoned our -men because they said they but fought under compulsion. All is well.” - -“But whence came this, and this?” persisted the more practical Marie, -pointing to the motley collection of food, wearing apparel, wines, and -even furniture, with which the ground was now littered. - -Questions for long brought no coherent reply, and it was not until late -in the afternoon, their comrades having scattered in search of their -respective families, that either Herbes or Marin was able to give a -clear account of all that had happened. - -It was significant of the religious dependence and docility of the -Acadian nature that one of the first questions asked and answered should -be concerning the fate of Le Loutre. At the query the two men, who since -their vain trip to Quebec had wavered somewhat in their allegiance to -the tyrannical _abbé_, shrugged their shoulders and spread their hands -as those who knew nothing. - -“But, Louis,” Marie cried, “it is important that we know, for without -him are we not but lost sheep in the wilderness?” - -“As to that, good wife, I cannot tell thee,” answered Louis. “When we -left that villainous fort _M. l’Abbé_ was nowhere to be seen. Depend on -it, he was with the commandant. All was hurry and confusion from the -moment the shell fell upon the officers’ table while they sat at meat, -killing six of them, yes, six!” Here he crossed himself, shuddering, and -Marin took up the tale: - -“Yes, and the _bon Dieu_ alone knows how great was the wonder of the -English, who expected to fight many more days, when the white flag flew -from the ramparts. _M. l’Abbé_ I beheld everywhere then. He ran from one -to the other, pleading that the flag of the coward, for so our brave -_abbé_ called it, be taken in. Well, we Acadians know that he hath the -gift of speech, but now it was in vain. The French were glad to cease -this foolish killing of men for naught, glad even as we were. So -presently it was arranged that they should march out with the honors of -war,—whatever honor there be in slaying and quarreling,—and proceed at -once to Louisbourg. Then the officers fell to drinking and plundering -ere they departed, and we gathered up what little we could lay hands on, -and so took leave with our pardon. Of the priest I saw no more. That is -all that has happened.” - -Margot, who during this recital had been leaning forward with clasped -hands, at last ventured timidly, addressing Louis Herbes: - -“And _mon cousin_; of him you saw nothing?” - -“No, little one,” replied Louis kindly; “but, I learned that one -Gabriel, with another name that cracks the jaws even to think of, was -much spoken of during the attack by reason of his valor, and that he -fought well. Rather he than I,” he concluded with a grimace. - -Margot fell back and said no more. She had all for which she had dared -to hope; again she must wait, it was true, but this time not wholly -uncheered. - -The sun sank and the moon rose and the wearied household was wrapped in -slumber, all but Margot, who leaned from the window of the shedroom she -occupied apart from the common sleeping apartment, which according to -Acadian custom also served for a kitchen. She had tried to sleep and had -failed. - -Secure in the pardon granted them by the English, heedless of the -future, the Acadians were once more collected under their own rooftrees, -and as Margot’s eyes roamed along the banks of the Missaguash they -rested with a sense of sympathetic peace upon the little farmhouses -containing so many re-united families. - -Yet it was strange how constantly on this night of apparent peace her -mind reverted to the relentless priest who had caused herself and others -so much misery. Involuntarily her mind strayed backward to the days when -they had all hung on every glance of that strong, imperious man, whose -word was law to a weak and vacillating people, and who represented to -the simple villagers salvation here and hereafter. Now, in his hour of -defeat, how would it be? His influence had already waned, she thought. - -Her window was raised only a few feet from the ground and, unseen by -her, a figure came gliding along in the shadow of the wide eaves. -Another moment and her quick ear had caught the sound of hushed steps, -but before the flashing thought had had time to concentrate in the cry, -“Gabriel!” a grasp of iron was laid upon her shoulder and a hand crushed -down upon her mouth. - -There was a hideous interval before a word was spoken, after her -terrified eyes had taken in the fact that she was in the clutches of one -of the dreaded Micmacs. Then, was it with increased horror or with -relief that she recognized the voice which at last spoke? - -“Margot! maiden!” The whisper was harsh. “It is thy priest and father in -God who commands thy service.” - -The shock temporarily deprived the girl of power to reply, but finding -that she made neither struggle nor outcry, Le Loutre, for it was indeed -he, released her. - -This man was her enemy, so ran her swift thought; he had robbed her of -all that made life dear. - -Now Margot, though gentle in heart and deed, was human and intolerant, -as the young usually are. Forgiveness of cruel wrong could only come -through prayer and striving. She remembered the destroyed and abandoned -home, made desolate by this man; the beloved _gran’-père_, dead from -exposure and want; the beloved cousin, an outcast and a wanderer; and it -was this man who had done it. - -Yes, she guessed what the priest wanted. He was a hunted fugitive. But -why did he come to her, whom he had so greatly wronged? - -Then she remembered also the words Gabriel had once read to her from an -ancient printed page treasured by his mother as having been the property -of his father: “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that -trespass against us.” - -She was so long silent that the voice of Le Loutre had in it a quaver of -apprehension when he again addressed her, and when she looked up and -saw, even in the moonlight, how almost craven were the glances the once -arrogant priest cast over his shoulder into the dim, wide-stretching -woods, compassion as well as higher emotions was aroused, and her -resolve taken. - -“_M. l’Abbé_,” she said simply, “there are none here who would harm -their priest, even should they awake. As for me, I will do what I can, -and God will teach me to forgive you.” - -At the sound of such words from one of the least of his flock, the -priest’s imperious temper sprang to his lips. But the situation was too -perilous for anger. - -None here who would harm him? He was not over sure of that. The men, did -not they both believe he had harmed them? Yet all that he had done had -been for their souls’ good. And of a surety he knew his dear Acadians, -who for the sake of peace and freedom from alarms would hesitate, even -though the life of the guardian of those souls were at stake. But this -maiden, with her it was otherwise. True, she was half-heretic, but she -was made of sterner stuff than most of her compatriots. Her he felt sure -that he might trust. - -Minds work quickly in hours of danger, and it was but a minute before he -replied: - -“I will pray for the salvation of thy soul, maiden, if yet it may be -won. But now,” his voice in spite of him trembling with anxiety, “where -wilt thou conceal me until such time as my trusty Cope arrives to go -with me to Baye-Verte? There tarries my brother in God, Manach, and -together we seek safety at Quebec.” - -At the name of Jean Baptiste Cope, the Micmac at whose hands Gabriel had -endured so much, Margot’s heart contracted with something like hatred. -There was a short, sharp struggle within her. This, then, was what -forgiving your enemies meant? Oh, it was hard, hard! And this priest and -this Indian had injured so many, was it right to help them to escape? - -Little did she guess the thoughts pouring forth from the _abbé’s_ -fertile imagination as he watched her—new thoughts, new ideas. Anxiety -for the maiden’s soul, he would have said, was the mainspring of his -intended actions, the desire to make one final effort to save her from -perdition. Like many another too sure of his own holiness, the taint of -personal malice, personal revenge, ran like a dark and dirty thread -through the whiteness of his own soul’s garment. Le Loutre was as honest -with himself as he was able to be, and certainly his fanaticism was real -and true. - -Yet he judged Gabriel entirely by himself, by his own capacity for -righteous (?) hatred: Gabriel was at the head of the party searching for -him betwixt Beauséjour and Baye-Verte, and it was for this reason that -he had made a wide détour, appointing the meeting with his factotum, -Cope, at a house where dwelt one who could be depended upon not to -betray him. Her influence over the young heretic, he believed, could -also be depended upon, should the fugitives be intercepted by him in -their flight. Honor, loyalty to duty, counted for nothing in the -estimation of the religious fanatic. - -“It is for her soul’s salvation,” he repeated to himself with pious -emphasis. From the woods near by floated the quavering cry of a night -owl. - -“Await me here, Margot,” exclaimed the priest authoritatively, and -stepping backward was lost in the shadows. - -Force of habit was strong, and still leaning from the window she -instinctively obeyed. - -A few minutes elapsed, and then the terrifying Indian, who no longer had -terrors for her, re-appeared. - -But this time no words passed. A brawny arm seized her by the waist, -while at the same time a cloth was pushed into her mouth. Unable to -utter a sound, she was dragged from the window, and borne away. - - - CHAPTER VII - -When Gabriel, two or three days later, rode up to rejoin Monckton’s -command under the walls of Beauséjour, his heart—despite his failure to -capture the fugitive priest—beat high with joyful anticipation, for -Monckton had promised that upon his return he should be given a few -hours to visit his cousin and assure himself that all was indeed well -with her. The general himself was subject to the orders of Governor -Shirley, and Gabriel had come to him with a letter of recommendation -from George Washington. Washington, himself a Virginian, rightly guessed -that the young soldier, of English birth and bound to Virginia by ties -of blood and sympathy, would not harmonize comfortably with the New -England Puritans under Winslow. - -“The maiden were best at Halifax,” had been Monckton’s comment on -hearing Gabriel’s briefly told tale. “There abide many of her people.” - -Best! Yes, how far best! But wishes were vain. - -The general, when Gabriel arrived in camp, was busy in his tent, and -merely waved his hand hurriedly as the young man saluted and began to -make his report. - -“I know, I know!” he exclaimed. “The rascally priest has slipped through -our fingers, disguised as one of his infernal Micmacs, I understand. -Well, the country is well rid of him. I shall soon have other work for -you.” - -Chancing to glance up, something in his lieutenant’s face struck -him—something in the tense eagerness of the fine, soldierly figure. - -“Speak,” he said kindly, “what is it?” - -Then suddenly he remembered, and a smile illumined his anxious, rather -worn face, while that of Gabriel flushed in response. - -“Ah, I bethink me. Well, rest and eat, and then go to the house on the -Missaguash where dwells the cousin. Ere long I will have less pleasant -work for you.” - -The color ebbed from Gabriel’s face. He longed to inquire further; to -ask if the rumor were true that in consequence of persistent refusal to -take the oath of allegiance the Acadians were to be expelled from -English soil, from the places of refuge still left them by the French -after forcing them from their former homes. Poor, unhappy people; driven -like sheep before the wolves! But discipline forbade anything but prompt -and silent obedience. And, as an hour or two later, he swung at a gallop -toward the home of Herbes and Marin, of whose precise locality he had -been informed by a friendly Acadian, his high hopes of the morning were -tinged with gloomy forebodings. - -One by one the French forts were falling into English hands, and in a -few days Acadia would once more be an English province. Already the land -over which he rode—called the Chignecto district—belonged no more to -France. - -Across the bridge he thundered, and there in the midst of the meadows -stood the rough cabin and outlying sheds inhabited by those he sought. -Faster and faster flew the horse, conscious of his rider’s impatience, -and Marin, lolling on a bench before the door, arose in mingled alarm -and curiosity. To the women and children, crowding to the front at the -sound of galloping hoofs, the young soldier was a splendid apparition as -he sprang from his excited steed and greeted them bareheaded, the glory -of the May sun in his ruffled blonde curls, and his eyes shining blue as -the waters of far Chignecto Bay. - -Then of a sudden knowledge came to Marie. - -“Ah, the cousin!” she ejaculated; and then could say no more. How could -she tell him? - -“Yes,” he cried, “I am Gabriel. Where is Margot?” - -“Ah, _la pauvre petite_! Who knows?” - -And the kind-hearted woman threw her apron over her head and burst into -loud sobs, in which she was joined by Julie, the wife of Marin. - -Frantic as he was with anxiety, Gabriel could extract nothing coherent -from either the women or Marin, the latter a stupid fellow at best, with -just enough brains to be suspicious and obstinate; but fortunately Louis -Herbes arrived on the scene, and from him the sad tale was forthcoming. - -“Nevertheless he was no Indian,” concluded Louis shrewdly, glancing over -his shoulder and speaking in a whisper; “it was _M. l’Abbé_ himself.” - -“How knowest thou that?” growled Marin. - -“I do know it,” asserted Herbes with quiet confidence. “There were some -who also knew and told. I have spoken aloud and sorely of the loss of -our Margot.” - -“Yes, _bon ami_,” sneered Marin. “Now tell it all. Give _le bon prêtre_ -into the hands of the heretics.” - -“Whom I may trust, that also I know,” exclaimed Louis vehemently, -turning upon his friend. . . Then more calmly, “No matter for that. _M. -l’Abbé_ is out of Acadie ere now, and we, say I, are well rid of him. -Only grief and trouble did he bring us.” - -He glanced around defiantly, but the little group remained passive. -Gabriel stood apart, his face hidden in his horse’s mane. At length he -spoke: - -“And thou knowest no more, good Louis? Thou hast no clue?” - -“This only: that from Baye-Verte _M. l’Abbé_, and his brother priest -made sail for Quebec, and it was said that he would leave our Margot at -Isle St. Jean, where is a goodly colony of our people, driven out of -Acadie long since and living miserably.” - -Gabriel groaned. Julie stepped forward and laid a kindly hand upon his -shoulder. - -“Better that than the Indians,” she exclaimed in the sanguine tones -habitual to her. “And something tells me that _la petite_ escaped. Who -knows? She may have made her way to Halifax.” - -“Impossible!” returned Gabriel sadly. “All alone, those many leagues?” - -“But,” put in Herbes confidently, “there was a party of our country -people landed at Baye-Verte from that melancholy isle, on their way to -Halifax to take the oath of allegiance. One party had already done so, -with the result that they were reinstated in their old homes and -furnished by the heretic English with provisions for the winter. This -second party looked for the same indulgence, if not too late. Who knows? -the maiden may have joined them. One coming hither from Baye-Verte vowed -that he saw her not with the priests.” - -“And I?” exclaimed Gabriel, in a sudden burst of anger with himself, -“why did not I capture that man, who over and over again has brought -misery into my own life and the lives of all dear to me? From Beauséjour -to Baye-Verte it is but twelve miles, and meseemed I rode with my -company over every inch of it, yet saw neither priest nor Indian.” - -The face of Louis took on a peculiar expression. - -“_M. le Capitain_,” he said, “it hath been related of us that we, the -Acadians, love gold. And why not?” shrugging his shoulders and spreading -his hands. “Gold, it is good, and we are poor. _M. l’Abbé_ has gold -always, and so there are those who would hide and help him, even though -he be shorn of his strength. Also, is he not our father in God?” Here -his expression became devout, and he crossed himself. “Also, there are -some who have wearied of his rule—worse, say I, than that of a dozen -kings—and would speed him in his flight.” - -But Marie interrupted her husband: - -“Yes, Halifax,” she cried, whirling on the two men; “and was it not your -wife, she who knows nothing, and the wife of the good friend, and _la -petite_ herself, women all, who gave you the wise counsel to go to -Halifax while yet there was time, and take the honorable oath of -allegiance, and live in peace in the fair Annapolis meadows, and you -would not? What have the French done for us, I ask thee once more? What -matter the flag? I tell thee once again. Give us peace in the homes of -our fathers.” - -And at the thought, Marie wiped the tears of memory from her eyes. - -Louis continued silent, and Marin it was that answered with a shrug. - -“No need to weep, _bonne femme_! There is yet time. The English are a -dull race. They permit themselves to be deceived once and yet again.” - -“But not again,” put in Gabriel sternly. “Look you, Marin, and you too, -friend Herbes, you would have done well to listen to the sage counsel of -your wives, and of the little Margot,” here his voice faltered, “who was -ever wise, and for whose safe keeping so long I owe you all thanks which -may not be measured. Yet I tell you, England’s lion may sleep long, but -he wakes at last; so hath it ever been. Our governors, Cornwallis, -Hopson, were men of large and tender heart; they forgave and forbore. -With this governor it is otherwise; with Governor Shirley is it also -otherwise; these are men who will not forbear; they strike, and they -strike hard. Greatly I fear me that naught will avail you now; yet I -know nothing absolutely.” - -He mounted his horse, and held out his hand to the group, all the -brightness gone from his young face. But they clung to him, unwilling to -part from their last hope, beseeching him to intercede for them, -promising that if he succeeded they would start for Halifax at once, -searching constantly for the maiden by the way. - -“Alas, good friends!” replied the young man sadly, “I am insignificant. -No word of mine has weight with general or governor, although it is true -that Monckton favors me somewhat. My time, my person, are at the -disposal of my superiors. I cannot even go myself to search for and -rescue the beloved! Even with you, my friends, I have lingered too -long.” - -He pressed each hand in turn. - -“But you will try, _M. le capitain_?” they cried in chorus. - -“I will try. But I am not even a captain!” - -He smiled kindly upon them, but in his eyes was a sorrow akin to -despair. Another moment, and the thunder of his horse’s hoofs sounded -upon the bridge. - -It was as he foretold. The long years of indulgence were at an end. The -storm so slow in gathering broke at last with the fury of the -long-delayed. Winslow and Monckton, the New England and the British -generals, their tempers ruffled by distasteful duty, were already -inclined to fall out; and Gabriel soon saw that in order to intercede -successfully for his Acadian friends he must bide his time. But the -peremptory orders sent by Governor Lawrence neither general was in a -hurry to carry out; and so it happened that one day Gabriel perceived -his chance and seized it. - -“They are friends of yours, you say?” said Monckton, “and cared for the -cousin in her time of need? How came it, then, that they gave her not -better protection now? They tell you she is safe, but how know they? How -know you?” - -“Ah, if I did but know!” broke from the young soldier involuntarily. -Then controlling himself, he proceeded: “General, the women of the -household have long striven with the men that they should return to live -under the English flag. Herbes and Marin were among those who signed the -petition to the French and English governments that they should be -allowed to do so, thereby grievously displeasing Le Loutre, so that he -selected these men to go to Quebec as deputies, well knowing the -reception that awaited them there. Thus did he punish them; and my lord -can guess that it was punishment indeed!” - -Monckton half smiled; then rubbed his forehead in weariness and -perplexity. Finally he said: - -“Well, lieutenant, go! But bid them do quickly that which they desire. -The order has gone forth, and in a day or two at farthest I may spare -none.” - -So once more Gabriel flew across the Missaguash, and although he could -hear nothing more of Margot, he at least had the consolation of feeling -that he had saved her benefactors, and that there was always hope she -might be found at Halifax, whither the party started that same night in -their ox-wagons, driving their milch-cows before them. - - - CHAPTER VIII - -And now followed bitter days indeed. A merciless guide and shepherd -might Le Loutre have been, but at least in him the helpless flock had -found a leader; he had forsaken them, and like silly sheep they ran -hither and thither, halting more than ever betwixt two opinions. Looking -vainly to the French for assistance, they shilly-shallyed too long with -the oath of allegiance to the English government, and began to reap the -terrible harvest accruing from long years of deceit and paltering with -honor. It has been written that a man may not serve two masters, and too -late the unhappy Acadians realized the truth of these words. - -Gabriel gave thanks that it was the New England troops that were sent -out from Beauséjour, re-christened Fort Cumberland, to gather in all the -male Acadians in the vicinity, since but a small proportion had obeyed -the summons to report themselves at the fort. But he rejoiced too soon. -Winslow was soon ordered to the Basin of Mines, and especially requested -that the lieutenant who had distinguished himself during the siege might -accompany him with a few regulars. - -The entire Basin of Mines, including the village of Grand Pré, having -been left comparatively undisturbed by Le Loutre and his “lambs,” still -continued to be prosperous Acadian settlements; and it was therefore -upon them that the storm broke most destructively, and it was there, -perhaps, that the saddest scenes in this sad history took place. Yet it -was here too, that the people had benefited most by the lenient English -rule, and had shown themselves most unreliable and treacherous; or, to -speak more accurately, had yielded with the greatest weakness to the -_abbé’s_ instigations, in particular as regarded the disguising of -themselves as Indians that they might plunder English settlements. By -this means they had saved their own skins, so to speak, and had been -spared many persecutions at the hands of Le Loutre. And now these -unhappy peasants, too dull of brain to thoroughly understand what they -were bringing upon themselves, refused to sign the oath of allegiance -“until after further consideration.” Already six years of such -“consideration” had been granted them by the indulgence of former -governors; and instead of considering, they had been acting,—acting the -part of traitors. As has been said, the present governors of New England -and Nova Scotia were in no mood for longer dalliance, even had they been -able to afford it. If more time were given, the French, whose forces -were the stronger, might regain all they had lost. The Acadians were -aware of the superior strength of France, and this knowledge was one of -the causes of their suicidal tardiness. - -It was with a gloomy brow, therefore, that Gabriel stood one bright -September morning at the window of the vicarage at Grand Pré, gazing -forth upon the rich farms and meadowland spread before him, backed by -the azure of mountain and water. Winslow was a thorough soldier, if a -rough man; and, like every officer, regular or colonial, loathed his -task, though convinced of its necessity. At Fort Edward, farther inland, -he had found both sympathy and good fellowship in the English lieutenant -stationed there; but sociabilities had to end now, although a friendly -intercourse was kept up, Winslow and Murray remaining on the best of -terms throughout their detested work. - -The two officers had decided not to interfere with the farmers until the -crops were gathered; but as Winslow’s force was greatly outnumbered by -the Acadians, he put up a palisade around the church, graveyard, and -vicarage, thus making a kind of fort. Before doing so, however, he had -directed the Acadians to remove from the church all sacred emblems lest -through the bigotry and fanaticism of the Puritan soldiers these revered -treasures should be destroyed. - -The New Englander expressed his own feelings thus, in a letter to his -commanding officer: “Although it is a disagreeable path of duty we are -put upon, I am sensible it is a necessary one, and shall endeavor -strictly to obey your excellency’s orders.” - -Winslow and Murray arranged to summon the habitans at the same day and -hour, in order that the stunning blow might fall on their respective -districts at once. A natural antipathy, needless to say, existed betwixt -the Puritan soldiers of New England and the habitans of Acadia. The -former, moreover, were hardened by a life of struggle and difficulty in -a climate and with a soil less genial than that of Acadie; and these -soldiers belonged to the same age and race that put to death helpless -women for witchcraft and hanged harmless Quakers for the crime of -refusing to leave the colony of Massachusetts. Yet even they must at -times have felt some pity for the unfortunate peasants, driven from -their peaceful homes. Le Loutre, however, had felt none during all the -years he had been at the same work. - -When the hour arrived in which the assembled Acadians were to be told -that they were prisoners, Gabriel had begged of Winslow’s clemency that -he might be absent from the church; and now, as he stood sadly at the -window of the vicarage parlor, the door of the room was softly pushed -open, and Marin stood before him. His little eyes were restless with -fear, and his naturally crafty countenance was drawn and pale. - -Gabriel uttered an exclamation, and sprang forward. - -“Tchut!” The peasant put his finger to his lips. “I was in Halifax, eh, -_M. le Capitain_?” he whispered. “Nay, but here am I at Grand Pré—and -so much the worse for a good Catholic! I said, I have tricked these -heretics before and I will trick them again. It is a good deed—but this -time the holy saints were not with me.” - -The young officer made a gesture of despair and disgust. - -“But, friend Marin, what of thy given word? Didst thou not promise me -that if I obtained permission for thee to go to Halifax, thither thou -wouldst go?” - -The man shrugged his shoulders. - -“Assuredly. But what of that? One more or less—what matters it? At -Grand Pré no foolish oath was then required—at Halifax, yes!” - -“But how didst thou escape from the church?” - -“Oh, that was not difficult. We were caught, we men, as rats in a trap; -but the general yielded to our tears and prayers, and we are to choose -daily twenty to go home and console the wives and children. I am among -the first lot chosen, and——” - -Gabriel interrupted him impatiently. - -“But Louis Herbes, is he also at Grand Pré?” - -“Alas, no! the wife, she was too strong. They proceeded to Halifax. I -too desire to go thither now if thou, who art of Acadie, wilt aid me.” - -“When thou needest help before, I was of the hated English,” retorted -the young man grimly. “But be I what I may, English or Acadian, I serve -honor first—and so bethink thee!” - -“Honor? Assuredly, _M. le Capitain_! Yet listen.” He came nearer, -lowering his voice to a whisper. “I come not back, hearest thou?” - -“And what of thy countrymen here? Of a certainty they will be held -answerable for thy treachery.” - -“That will be thy part to arrange,” observed Marin coolly. - -Gabriel, ever quick to act, sprang upon the peasant and seized him by -the collar of his blouse. For a moment anger deprived him of the power -of speech. Then— - -“And thou wilt make me traitor too!” he cried. “Almost I could wish that -no blood of Acadie ran in my veins!” - -“And Margot—is she not Acadian?” - -Marin was quite unabashed, and there was a leer in the small eyes he -turned up to the young giant who held him as a mastiff holds a rat. - -At the name of Margot, Gabriel loosed the man, covered his eyes with his -hands and sank into a chair. - -“Ah, Margot!” he groaned. - -“Yes, Margot, I say again. Thou wilt let me go, and thou wilt swear that -thou knowest of a truth that I overstayed my time, and was drowned in -the marshes hurrying hither in the darkness of the night, that thou -didst strive to save me and failed. The salt marshes receive the dead, -and cover them kindly. All this thou dost know, and my good character -also. Who will doubt the word of a brave soldier?” - -“A clumsy plot, indeed, even were I willing to forswear my honor for -thee!” - -Gabriel had his friend by the collar again. - -“Release me, or I will not tell thee what I know!” ejaculated Marin -sullenly. - -“Tell, and be done!” - -The young man let go of his prisoner so suddenly that the fellow nearly -fell upon the floor. - -“Not so fast, my brave _capitain_!” Marin was eying him now from a safe -distance. “Not a word of the _belle cousine_ dost thou win from me until -I have thy promise to aid me to escape.” - -[Illustration: “‘And thou wilt make me traitor too,’ he cried.”] - -Gabriel was silent. - -“It is as I say. I know where Margot is to be found, but——” Marin -paused expressively. - -Gabriel still did not answer. When at last he spoke, his voice was low -and stern. - -“Marin, I owe thee somewhat in that thou didst open thy doors to my -cousin and her friends in their time of stress. Thou hast said that I am -Acadian. True! But also am I English, and an English soldier and a -Protestant. There is my faith and my honor—both forbid a lie. Not even -for Margot can I do this thing.” - -His voice broke, and he turned away. Well, he knew the combined -obstinacy and ignorance of the typical Acadian peasant, such as in some -sort Marin was, and he hoped nothing. Marin, on the contrary, not -understanding the situation, would not give up, and, in the few -remaining minutes left uninterrupted, worked his hardest. The temptation -was sore indeed, and by the time his tormentor was summoned to accompany -the deputies, Gabriel’s young face was pale and drawn with the struggle. - -“Tell me but one thing,” he said ere they parted, “is it well with her?” - -“Well? How know I?” retorted the Acadian, surveying the result of his -work with mingled complacency and disgust. “Perhaps!” - -But for the tremendous pressure already being put upon his unhappy -commander by the events of this fifth day of September, Gabriel would -have gone directly to him, and despite his gratitude to Marin for past -services, would have requested that he be detained until he should -reveal the whereabouts of Margot. But Winslow, New England Puritan -though he might be, was finding, in common with his English -brother-in-arms at Fort Edward, “things very heavy on his heart and -hands”; so Gabriel forebore to trouble him with his own matters. - -And if his superior’s heart was heavy, how much heavier was his—born -and reared an Acadian of the Acadians, and now with personal loss and -grief added to his other sorrows! - -Marin, though crafty and self-seeking, had not the daring to break his -word, unsheltered as he was by Gabriel from the righteous wrath of his -compatriots; so night saw him back within the stockade. He kept his -secret, nevertheless, and neither persuasion nor threats prevailed with -him. The rest of the prisoners were all strangers to Gabriel, and had -never heard of him before; and for reasons of his own, Marin kept their -previous acquaintance dark. - -As the days went on, and the prisoners increased in number both at Fort -Edward and Grand Pré, the commanding officers grew uneasy. The -transports that were to bear away the Acadian families with their -household goods were slow in arriving, and it would have been easy for -the prisoners, had they been men of courage and resolution, to overpower -their guards and escape. Unfortunately the Acadian character possessed -none of those qualities necessary for the preservation of freedom, or -for the reclaiming of it if lost. Gabriel’s duties kept him constantly -within the stockade; and the small force having no horses with them, and -the village of Grand Pré, together with the other settlements, -straggling for many miles, he had never been within a league of the -house of Marin or encountered any chance acquaintance. The times were -too strenuous, the crisis too tremendous, to permit of the least -relaxation on the part of a loyal officer. - -But although the transports delayed, ships from Boston came and anchored -in the Basin. Winslow thereupon resolved to place about half of his -prisoners upon these ships, and keep them there for better security -until the transports should arrive. To Gabriel, because of his complete -understanding of the language and the nature of his fellow-countrymen, -the general left the hard task of explaining to the prisoners what was -required of them, and of persuading them to submit quietly. - -All were very silent as they stood in the churchyard guarded by -soldiers. Winslow himself kept rather in the background, leaving his -subordinate to enact the part of principal in this trying scene. The -general, though a good soldier and popular with his men, had hitherto -passed for a person somewhat ignorant and over-much addicted to -self-satisfaction. But in the last few weeks he had had little -opportunity for satisfaction even with himself. “This affair is more -grievous to me than any service I was ever employed in!” was his -constant lament. And now, as he stood quietly watching Gabriel, he -observed for the first time the change in the young man. He was pale and -wan, and his eyes wore the look of one who is forever seeking and never -finding. - -In a low, clear voice he announced the decision of the general, assured -them of their perfect safety, and also that the wives and children of -the married would soon be restored to them. - -For a while a great murmuring prevailed, which Gabriel was powerless to -subdue; it seemed as if, despite every effort, bloodshed must be the -result of the manifesto. The New England soldiers, as has been said, had -little sympathy with the “idolaters,” and were ready at a word to make -short work of them. But Winslow was reluctant to say that word, and ere -long Gabriel had the prisoners once more under control. A given number -of unmarried men were then selected, these being sent off under guard to -the ships; after them were to follow a smaller number of married men. - -Gabriel stood like a figure carved in stone at the head of his handful -of soldiers, whilst the commanding officer himself selected the Acadian -husbands and fathers. Suddenly, before the guard could interfere, a -figure hurled itself out of the chosen group and precipitated itself -upon Gabriel, while a voice shrieked: - -“Thou, thou who art an Acadian, thou canst save me! me, who took the -cousin into my house and fed and sheltered her! Answer, dost hear?” - -But Gabriel was on duty, and made as though he neither heard nor saw. -Shaking Marin from his arm, he motioned to his men to replace him in the -ranks. - -Winslow’s curiosity, ever active, was, however, aroused, and seizing his -opportunity, he drew his subordinate to one side and questioned him. -Gabriel replied with his customary brevity and straightforwardness. - -“And why did you not come at once to me, sir?” rejoined Winslow, puffing -and mopping his fat, red face. - -The young man stated his reasons, adding that though Marin might -possibly know where Margot was, no reliance was to be placed upon the -word of a man who was concerned only for his own comfort and had no -respect for truth. - -“That may be, that may be,” fussed the kind-hearted general. “But, -lieutenant, you will now conduct these men to the ships. Their women -will of a surety line the way along which you have to pass. Assure them -of my permission to visit their men-folk daily until this troublesome -job be at an end—as God grant it may be ere long. Your eyes may be on -the women as well as on your duty, eh? You are young, yet I have proven -you worthy of trust.” - -So saying, the general bustled off, and shortly after the gates of the -stockade were again opened and the procession started for the shores of -the Basin. - -For one of Gabriel’s years and position the task set him, though kindly -intentioned, was a heartbreaking one. But a few miles distant, near the -mouth of the Annapolis River, he and Margot had been born and reared. In -spite of his manhood, or perhaps because he was so true a man, the hot -tears rose to his eyes, kept from falling only by the might of his iron -will; for all along the wayside toward the water’s edge kneeled or stood -the wives and children of the men tramping beside him through the late -summer’s dust, gazing as they passed not merely on those wives and -children, but upon the wide and fertile meadows whose harvests they -should never gather more. - -At intervals as he walked Gabriel proclaimed the general’s behests and -promises; and one or two women, who knew now for the first time of his -presence in the neighborhood and recognized him, pressed forward to -clasp his hands and cover them with tears, and plead with the man who, -as a little babe, they had held upon their strong knees and pressed to -their broad Acadian bosoms. Unable longer to endure in silence, on his -own account he at length called a halt, and in loud, ringing tones spoke -these words: - -“Fellow-countrymen, I serve my general, and him I must obey. But his -heart, even as my own, is heavy for your sufferings, and again I tell -you that your husbands and fathers are not being borne away from you. -They will remain on the ships but a short distance from the shore, and -every day you can visit them until such time as the transports arrive -and you all sail away together, you and your children and your household -goods. Grieve not, then, for loss which is not yours.” - -Concluding his brief address he stepped down from the low mound upon -which he had mounted, and confronted the wife of Marin. Evidently she -belonged to the class of women whose indifference had so greatly -astonished the English lieutenant; for her face was calm, and she smiled -as she met Gabriel’s eyes. It was impossible for him to pause longer, -but although her husband’s malevolent gaze was riveted upon her, Julie -extended her hand and caught that of the young officer as he swung past -on the march. - -“Look for me at the church,” she whispered, “at the hour of vespers.” - -Gabriel’s impulsive heart leaped within him, and in an instant a -thousand wild hopes and imaginings were seething in his brain; and the -women, being appeased and many of them hurrying homeward to prepare -meals to carry to the ships, he was left unmolested. He concluded his -task without further difficulty, and returned to the church. - -The general, relieved from pressing anxiety, was in a mood to satisfy -his natural curiosity, and having received his lieutenant’s formal -report, began to ply him with questions respecting his personal affairs. -Gabriel answered without reserve. - -“Mark me, sir!” exclaimed Winslow delightedly, “the maiden comes hither -this night with the woman. Then will we have some romance in these -melancholy times.” - -And forgetting his dignity, he clapped his subordinate violently on the -shoulder. And Gabriel found nothing to say. - - - CHAPTER IX - -But Winslow was in error. The wife of Marin came alone, and Gabriel’s -yearning eyes traveled in vain beyond the sturdy figure of the Acadian -peasant woman for the slight one of his cousin. - -The meeting took place in the general’s private parlor. - -“Ah, you expected _la petite_!” began Julie volubly, “but that may not -be—not yet.” - -“Where is she, friend Julie?” interrupted the young man impatiently. -“How did she escape from the priest? Is she well? Is she happy? Does she -think of me? Only tell me.” - -“But that is much to tell, my brave boy,” laughed Julie. “Listen now to -me, who am indeed thy friend. Thou shalt see her, and she shall answer -those many questions with her own lips, but on one condition: the -marriage must be at once—on the instant. Otherwise, Marin——” she -shrugged her shoulders expressively. “It is not well, seest thou, to -fall out with a husband. Now, Marin is a prisoner, therefore am I a weak -woman left alone to deal with a young man of violence, seest thou? Thou -dost seize thy bride, thou dost carry her to thy priest, who am I? But -shouldst thou delay, and I bring _la petite_ to visit thee once, twice, -many times, Marin, he will say, ‘Thou, _bonne femme_, wast the guardian -of this child, and thou didst take her to visit a heretic, allowing her -also to neglect the duties she owes thee.’ But once thy wife, _M. le -Capitain_, and all is over.” - -Gabriel listened to this harangue with eyes upon the ground and the red -color slowly flushing to his fair face. He continued silent so long that -the woman lost patience. - -“_Mon Dieu!_” she ejaculated under her breath, “is it the English blood -that makes him so dull?” - -At last he spoke hesitatingly: - -“Good friend, thou sayest, ‘Seest thou?’ I reply, ‘Seest thou not also?’ -There has been no talk of marriage betwixt Margot and myself. Truly do I -desire it,” his eyes flashed, and he raised his head. “I desire it with -all the strength that is in me, but with Margot, the maiden, it may be -otherwise.” - -Again the wife of Marin laughed. So loudly did she laugh that the -general, pacing the vicarage garden, paused at the open window to -acquaint himself with the cause of her mirth. - -“It is the brave _garçon_, my general. He knows nothing. Let him but -arrange for the marriage, and I, even I, Julie, will answer for the -maiden.” - -Then, on being questioned by Winslow, she went over her tale once more, -and the two gossips would have promptly settled the whole affair out of -hand had not one of the principals interposed. - -“Let me but see her once—only once—first,” implored Gabriel. - -The general, promptly won over to the side of Julie, hesitated, in such -haste was he for the pleasurable excitement of a wedding; but finally it -was resolved that the young lover should go the following morning to -Julie’s little cabin, and there win his fair young bride for himself. - -As Julie drew on her hood preparatory to departure, Winslow inquired of -her how it fared with the women, remarking that she herself seemed to -bear her fate with much cheer. - -“For the others—well, while many lament, all do not. For myself I care -not. I weary of the French rule and the fighting and wandering and the -savage Indians. Anywhere I go willingly where there is peace, and the -soil is fruitful—_v’ là tout!_” - -So she went; and the early sun was glistening on meadows yet dewy when -Gabriel, forgetful for the moment of the sorrows around him and his own -distasteful duties, strode along the same dusty road he had traversed -the previous day, arriving in the course of an hour or so at the small -hut inhabited by the Marins. Julie, hastening forth to milk, greeted him -with a broad smile, and waved to him to enter. - -Enter he did, and in a second, neither knew how, he held Margot close to -his heart. - -It was long before a word was spoken. It was enough that they were -together; and when at length Gabriel found voice, it was at first only -for expressions of pity and endearment for the frail little creature who -seemed lost within his large embrace. - -[Illustration: “They sat down side by side . . . before the empty - hearth.”] - -“But I am not so frail, _mon cousin_,” she protested. “I can work and -endure, ah, thou knowest not how much!” - -“But never again, _chérie_!” was Gabriel’s reply; and grown strangely -and suddenly bold, he added: “and remember, it must be ‘_mon cousin_’ no -longer, for from this very day there shall be an end of ‘_cousin_’—it -will be ‘wife’ and ‘husband.’ Hearest thou?” - -Yes, Margot heard, but had nothing to say. Finally she remarked in a low -voice: - -“I would be baptized into thy faith first.” - -“What?” cried Gabriel joyfully. “Is that really so, my Margot? What glad -news! Now is all indeed well with us! There is a chaplain at Fort -Edward; he will baptize thee, and marry us.” - -They sat down side by side upon the rude bench before the empty hearth, -and talked and made plans as lovers have done since lovers first began. -Gabriel’s mind, as we know, worked quickly, and he soon had beautiful -schemes mapped out for being transferred to Washington’s command in -Virginia, that rising young general having been recently appointed -commander-in-chief of the army there. - -“My noble captain is now stationed at Winchester,” he concluded, “and -with him is that grand old soldier Fairfax, the lord lieutenant of the -county. They are engaged in subduing the Indians. At Winchester we will -live, and then shall I be ever at hand to protect my wife.” - -News traveled slowly in those days, and Gabriel had heard nothing of the -panic at Winchester, and with the confidence and faith of youth believed -that his hero, George Washington, could accomplish even the impossible. - -But duty called, and Julie returned, and Gabriel had to depart; yet not -before it was arranged that, with Winslow’s permission, assured in -advance, Julie should bring Margot that evening to the church, there to -meet the chaplain from Fort Edward, who would perform the two sacraments -of baptism and marriage. - -Winslow, naturally of a cheerful disposition, rejoiced in this break in -the monotony of misery, hastily dispatched a messenger to Fort Edward, -and but for Gabriel’s entreaties would have made the marriage as jovial -an affair as Puritanical principles admitted of. Discipline forbade that -a woman could be received as an inmate of a fortified camp, neither -could Gabriel be spared often from duties destined to become daily more -onerous and troublesome; but to the two, scarcely more than boy and -girl, who stood that evening with bowed heads before the chaplain, there -was more than common comfort in the solemn words: “Those whom God hath -joined together let no man put asunder.” - -Joy and thankfulness, deep and unutterable, swelled the heart of the -young husband as, from the gate in the stockade, he watched the slight -form of his girl-wife disappear into the gathering shades of night. She -was his now—his to claim, to protect, to have and to hold till death -did them part. - -In the excitement and rapture of meeting, Gabriel had hardly bethought -him to ask her how she had escaped from Le Loutre. The fact that she had -escaped, that she was alive and well and with him, filled his mental -horizon. The tale, however, was short. The priest, hard pressed, had -been compelled to give her up to a party of fugitives hastening to -Halifax to take the oath. This party had come upon the Marins, and -thinking they also were bound for Halifax, Margot had willingly joined -them, finding out when it was too late Marin’s change of view. - -In those last sad days for her country-people Margot showed of what -stuff she was made. Consoling, upholding, encouraging, she seemed to -have arrived suddenly at a noble womanhood. This, however, was not the -case. She had been growing toward it slowly but surely through years of -adversity. - -The continued delay in the coming of the transports bred trouble betwixt -the soldiers and the Acadians. “The soldiers,” we are told, “disliked -and despised them,” the Acadians, and the general found it necessary not -only to enforce discipline more sternly among his troops, but to -administer the lash also on occasion. - -At last, one October day, Winslow had four transports at his disposal. -Orders and counter-orders, lamentation and weeping, disturbed the clear, -still air. Villages had to be arranged to go together in the same -transport as well as families; and this, with so few troops at his -command, was no easy task for the general, who naturally was possessed -of very little experience as regarded organization. Gabriel, who while -under Washington had received of necessity some training, was his right -hand man. The male prisoners were removed from the ships to land while -the mustering went forward. - -As the women filed past the spot where for a moment the harassed general -and his subordinate had come together, and the pair gazed upon the -melancholy confusion of young and old, and household belongings in -carts, Winslow groaned: “I know they deserve all and more than they -feel; yet it hurts me to hear their weeping and wailing and gnashing of -teeth!” - -At Fort Edward, as well as at many other places in the province, the -same terrible scenes were being enacted—those in command, without one -single authentic exception, carrying out the stern decree as mercifully -as possible. Beside the long train of women walked the priest of each -village, encouraging and upholding his flock. A few of these priests -accompanied the exiles, but most of them returned to Canada. - -Not all the women, however, were “weeping and wailing.” Some, as has -been remarked, appeared to be wholly undisturbed. Among these latter was -Julie, in the cart with whom was Margot, bound to see the last of her -benefactress. As they passed, both women waved their hands to the two -officers, Julie calling gayly to Gabriel: - -“It is well, _M. le mari_! Our ship goes to Virginia, where we shall -again meet. Is it not so?” - -For weary weeks the misery was prolonged, and it was the close of the -year before Winslow’s and Murray’s bitter task about the Basin of the -Mines was completed. But improved organization rendered even difficult -things easier, and by the last of October the general was able to part, -though with extreme reluctance, with his most efficient subordinate. -Gabriel, promoted to a captaincy, set sail with his wife on one of the -transports for Virginia. - -The poor exiles, with comparatively few exceptions, were scattered -around in the various States from Massachusetts southward, meeting with -no cruelty certainly, but also with no welcome from the struggling -colonials, and only in Louisiana thriving and becoming a permanent -colony. Canada, and even France and England, were also forced to receive -them, and in Canada, among the people of their own faith, their lot was -the hardest. Help in their own church they found none, and indeed in -many instances implored to be taken back to the English Colonies, where -at least they were not treated with actual inhumanity. The war at last -at an end, many, the Herbes amongst the number, found their way back to -their own country. A large portion of the fertile province lay waste, -however, for years, the New England soldier-farmers refusing either part -or lot in it, and English settlers finally being brought from over sea. - -It is doubtful if the Acadians ever learned the fate of their leader and -tyrant. Captured on the ocean by the English, Le Loutre died in prison, -after having been nearly assassinated by one of the soldiers of the -guard, who swore that the holy father had once in Acadie tried to take -his scalp! - -And Gabriel and Margot? Their lives were happy, although the pain of -separation was sometimes theirs, and they were often exposed to perils -and dangers. As an officer under Washington through stirring times, both -in the Indian wars and the war of the Revolution, Gabriel’s could not be -other than the life of sacrifice and self-devotion demanded by the life -of a true patriot. Margot seconded him bravely, cheering him on at the -trumpet-call of duty and never restraining him by selfish fears and -interests. She kept around her a few of her country people; and there in -Virginia she reared a family of brave boys to follow in their father’s -steps. - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -List of Illustrations for _Gabriel the Acadian_ was moved from the front -of the book to the start of the novel. - -A few obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected -without note. - -A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public -domain. - -[End of _The Angel of His Presence_ by G.L. Hill and _Gabriel the -Acadian_ by E.M.N. 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